VISIONARIES 


BY  JAMES  BUNEKER 

MEZZOTINTS  IN  MODERN  MUSIC  (1899) 

CHOPIN:  THE  MAN  AND  HIS  MUSIC  aww 

MELOMANIACS  (1902) 

OVERTONES  (1904) 

ICONOCLASTS:  A  BOOK  OF  DRAMATISTS 

VISIONARIES  (1906) 

EGOISTS:  A  BOOK  OP  SUPERMEN  aww 

PROMENADES  OP  AN  IMPRESSIONIST  (1910) 

FRANZ  LISZT.      ILLUSTRATED  (1911) 

THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE  (1913) 

NEW  COSMOPOLIS  0915) 

IVORY  APES  AND  PEACOCKS  (1916) 

UNICORNS  (1917) 

BEDOUINS  (1990) 

STEEPLEJACK.      TWO  VOLUMES   (1820) 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


VISIONARIES 


BY 

JAMES   HUNEKER 


Palme  les  nuages  ...  la  has  .  .  .  ! 

BAUDBLAIM 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1905,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Published  October,  1905. 


a 

MON  CHER  MAITRE 

REMY    DE    GOURMONT 

PARIS 


4G8232 


CONTENTS 

FAGB 

I.  A  MASTER  OF  COBWEBS i 

II.  THE  EIGHTH  DEADLY  SIN       ....  23 

III.  THE  PURSE  OF  AHOLIBAH        ....  44 

IV.  REBELS  OF  THE  MOON 64 

V.  THE  SPIRAL  ROAD 80 

VI.  A  MOCK  SUN no 

VII.  ANTICHRIST 135 

VIII.  THE  ETERNAL  DUEL 145 

IX.  THE  ENCHANTED  YODLER        ....  149 

X.  THE  THIRD  KINGDOM 168 

XI.  THE  HAUNTED  HARPSICHORD  .       .       .       .188 

XII.  THE  TRAGIC  WALL 203 

XIII.  A  SENTIMENTAL  REBELLION     ....  227 

XIV.  HALL  OF  THE  MISSING  FOOTSTEPS    ...  249 
XV.  THE  CURSORY  LIGHT 266 

XVI.  AN  IRON  FAN 278 

XVII.  THE  WOMAN  WHO  LOVED  CHOPIN   .       .       .289 

XVIII.  THE  TUNE  OF  TIME 309 

XIX.  NADA 326 

XX.  A\N    .                      332 


VISIONARIES 


A    MASTER   OF   COBWEBS 


ALIXE  VAN  KUYP  sat  in  the  first-tier  box 
presented  to  her  husband  with  the  accustomed 
heavy  courtesy  of  the  Soci£t£  Harmonique. 
She  went  early  to  the  hall  that  she  might 
hear  the  entire  music-making  of  the  evening  — 
Van  Kuyp's  tone-poem,  Sordello,  was  on  the 
programme  between  a  Weber  overture  and  a 
Beethoven  symphony,  an  unusual  honour  for  a 
young  American  composer.  If  she  had  gone 
late,  it  would  have  seemed  an  affectation,  she 
reasoned.  Her  husband  kept  within  doors ; 
she  could  tell  him  all.  And  then,  was  there 
not  Elvard  Rentgen  ? 

She  regretted  that  she  had  invited  the  Pari- 
sian critic  to  her  box.  It  happened  at  a  soirte, 
where  he  showed  his  savage  profile  among 
admiring  musical  lambs.  But  he  was  never 
punctual  at  musical  affairs.  This  consoled 
Alixe. 


VISIONARIES 

Perhaps  he  would  forget  her  impulsive,  fool- 
ish speech,  —  "without  him  the  music  would  fall 
upon  unheeding  ears,  —  he,  who  interpreted  art 
for  the  multitude,  the  holder  of  the  critical  key 
that  unlocked  masterpieces."  She  had  felt  the 
banality  of  her  compliment  as  she  uttered  it, 
and  she  knew  the  man  who  listened,  his  glance 
incredulous,  his  mouth  smiling,  could  not  be 
deceived.  Rentgen  had  been  too  many  years 
in  the  candy  shop  to  care  for  sweets.  She  re- 
called her  mean  little  blush  as  he  twisted  his 
pointed,  piebald  beard  with  long,  fat  fingers  and 
leisurely  traversed  —  his  were  the  measuring 
eyes  of  an  architect — her  face,  her  hair,  her 
neck,  and  finally,  stared  at  her  ears  until  they 
burned  like  a  child's  cheek  in  frost  time. 

Alixe  Van  Kuyp  was  a  large  woman,  with  a 
conscientious  head  and  gray  eyes.  As  she 
waited,  she  realized  that  it  was  one  of  her  timid 
nights,  when  colour  came  easily  and  temper  ran 
at  its  lowest  ebb.  She  had  begged  Van  Kuyp 
to  cancel  the  habit  of  not  listening  to  his  own 
music  except  at  rehearsal,  and,  annoyed  by  his 
stubbornness,  neglected  to  tell  him  of  the  other 
invitation.  The  house  was  quite  full  when  the 
music  began.  Uneasiness  overtook  her  as  the 
Oberon  slowly  stole  upon  her  consciousness. 
She  forgot  Rentgen  ;  a  more  disquieting  prob- 
lem presented  itself.  Richard's  music  —  how 
would  it  sound  in  the  company  of  the  old  mas- 
ters, those  masters  who  were  newer  than  Wag- 
ner, newer  than  Strauss  and  the  "moderns"! 
2 


A  MASTER  OF  COBWEBS 

She  envisaged  her  husband  —  small,  slim,  with 
his  bushy  red  hair,  big  student's  head —  familiarly 
locking  arms  with  Weber  and  Beethoven  in  the 
hall  of  fame.  No,  the  picture  did  not  convince 
her.  She  was  his  severest  censor.  Not  one  of 
the  professional  critics  could  put  their  fingers  on 
Van  Kuyp's  weak  spots —  "his  sore  music,"  as 
he  jestingly  called  it  —  so  surely  as  his  wife. 
She  had  studied  ;  she  had  even  played  the  violin 
in  public ;  but  she  gave  up  her  virtuosa  ambi- 
tions for  the  man  she  had  married  during  their 
student  years  in  Germany.  Now  the  old  doubts 
came  to  life  as  the  chivalric  tones  of  Weber  rose  to 
her  sharpened  senses.  Why  couldn't  Richard  — 

The  door  in  the  anteroom  opened,  her  guest 
entered.  Alixe  was  not  dismayed.  She  left 
her  seat  and,  closing  the  curtains,  greeted  him. 

The  overture  was  ending  as  Rentgen  sat 
down  beside  her  in  the  intimate  little  chamber, 
lighted  by  a  solitary  electric  bulb. 

"  You  are  always  thoughtful,"  she  murmured. 

"  My  dear  lady,  mine  is  the  honour.  And  if 
you  do  not  care,  can't  we  hear  the  music  of  your 
young  man-  "  he  smiled,  she  thought,  acidly 
—  "  here  ?  If  I  sit  outside,  the  world  will  say  — 
we  have  to  be  careful  of  our  unsmirched  reputa- 
tions —  we  poor  critics  and  slave-drivers  of  the 
deaf." 

She  drew  her  hand  gently  away.  He  had 
held  it,  playfully  tapping  it  as  he  slowly  deliv- 
ered himself  in  short  sentences.  He  was  a 
Dane,  but  his  French  and  English  were  with- 

3 


VISIONARIES 

out  trace  of  accent;  certain  intonations  alone 
betrayed  his  Scandinavian  origin. 

Alixe  could  not  refuse,  for  the  moment  he 
finished  speaking  she  heard  a  too  familiar  mo- 
tive, the  ponderous  phrase  in  the  brass  choir 
which  Van  Kuyp  intended  as  the  thematic  label 
for  his  hero,  "  Sordello." 

"Ah,  there's  your  Browning  in  tone  for  you," 
whispered  the  critic.  She  wished  him  miles 
away.  The  draperies  were  now  slightly  parted 
and  into  the  room  filtered  the  grave,  languorous 
accents  of  the  new  tone-poem.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  by  Rentgen's.  His  expression  changed ; 
with  nostrils  dilated  like  a  hunter  scenting  prey, 
his  rather  inert,  cold  features  became  transfig- 
ured ;  he  was  the  man  who  listened,  the  cruel 
judge  who  sentenced.  And  she  hoped,  also  the 
kind  friend  who  would  consider  the  youth  and 
inexperience  of  the  culprit.  To  the  morbidly 
acute  hearing  of  the  woman,  the  music  had  a 
ring  of  hollow  sonority  after  the  denser  packed 
phrases  of  Weber. 

She  had  read  Sordello  with  her  husband  until 
she  thought  its  meaning  was  as  clear  as  high 
noon.  By  the  critic's  advice  the  subject  had 
been  selected  for  musical  treatment.  Sordello's 
overweening  spiritual  pride  —  "gate-vein  of  this 
heart's  blood  of  Lombardy  "  —  appealed  to  Van 
Kuyp.  The  stress  of  souls,  the  welter  of  cross- 
purposes  which  begirt  the  youthful  dreamer,  his 
love  for  Palma,  and  his  swift  death  when  all  the 
world  thrust  upon  him  its  joys  —  here  were  mo* 
4 


A  MASTER  OF  COBWEBS 

tives,  indeed,  for  any  musician  of  lofty  aim  and 
sympathetic  imagination. 

Alixe  recalled  the  interminable  arguments, 
the  snatches  of  poetry,  the  hasty  rushes  to  the 
keyboard ;  a  composer  was  in  travail.  At  the 
end  of  a  year,  Rentgen  professed  his  satisfac- 
tion ;  Van  Kuyp  stood  on  the  highroad  to  fame. 
Of  that  there  could  be  no  doubt ;  Elvard  Rent- 
gen  would  say  so  in  print.  Alixe  had  been  re- 
assured — 

Yet  sitting  now  within  the  loop  of  her  hus- 
band's music  it  suddenly  became  insipid,  futile, 
and  lacking  in  those  enchantments  for  which 
she  yearned.  Her  eyes  dropped  to  the  shapely 
hands  meekly  folded  in  her  lap,  dropped  be- 
cause the  bold,  interrogative  expression  on  Rent- 
gen's  face  disturbed  her.  She  knew,  as  any 
woman  would  have  known,  that  he  admired  her 
—  but  was  he  not  Richard's  friend?  His  glance 
enveloped  her  with  piteous  mockery. 

The  din  was  tremendous.  After  passages  of 
dark  music,  in  which  the  formless  ugly  reigned, 
occurred  the  poetic  duel  between  Sordello  and 
Eglamor  at  Palma's  Court  of  Love.  But  why 
all  this  stress  and  fury  ?  On  the  pianoforte  the 
delicate  episode  sounded  gratefully;  with  the 
thick  riotous  orchestration  came  a  disillusioning 
transformation.  There  was  noise  without  power, 
there  was  sensuality  that  strove  to  imitate  the 
tenderness  of  passion ;  and  she  had  fancied  it  a 
cloudy  garden  of  love.  Alixe  raised  an  invol- 
untary hand  to  her  ear. 

5 


VISIONARIES 

"  Yes,"  whispered  the  critic,  "  I  warned  him 
not  to  use  his  colours  with  a  trowel.  His  theme 
is  not  big  enough  to  stand  it."  He  lifted  thin 
eyebrows  and  to  her  overheated  brain  was  an 
unexpected  Mephisto.  Then  the  music  whirled 
her  away  to  Italy ;  the  love  scene  of  Palm  a  and 
Sordello.  It  should  have  been  the  apex  of  the 
work. 

"  Sounds  too  much  like  Tschaifkowsky's  Fran- 
cesca  da  Rimini,"  interrupted  Rentgen.  She 
was  annoyed. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  Van  Kuyp  before  he 
scored  the  work  ? "  she  demanded,  her  long  gray 
eyes  beginning  to  blacken. 

"  I  did,  my  dear  lady,  I  did.  But  you  know 
what  musicians  are  — "  He  shrugged  a  con- 
clusion with  his  narrow  shoulders.  Alixe  coldly 
regarded  him.  There  was  something  new  and 
dangerous  in  his  attitude  to  her  husband's  music 
this  evening. 

Her  heart  began  to  beat  heavily.  What  if 
her  suspicions  were  but  the  advance  guard  of  a 
painful  truth!  What  if  this  keen  analyst  of 
other  men's  ideas  —  she  dared  not  finish  the 
thought.  With  a  sluggish  movement  the  music 
uncoiled  itself  like  a  huge  boa  about  to  engulf  a 
tiny  rabbit.  The  simile  forced  itself  against  her 
volition  ;  all  this  monstrous  preparation  for  a  — 
rabbit !  In  a  concert-hall  the  poetic  idea  of  the 
tone-poem  was  petty.  And  the  churning  of  the 
orchestra,  foaming  hysteria  of  the  strings,  bel- 
lowing of  the  brass  —  would  they  never  cease ! 
6 


A  MASTER  OF  COBWEBS 

Such  an  insane  chase  after  a  rabbit !  Yes,  she 
said  the  word  to  herself  and  found  her  lips 
carved  into  a  hard  smile,  which  she  saw  reflected 
as  in  a  trick  mirror  upon  the  face  of  Elvard 
Rentgen.  He  understood. 

Of  little  avail  Sordello's  frantic  impotencies. 
She  saw  through  the  rhetorical  trickeries  of 
the  music,  weighed  its  cheap  splendours,  real- 
ized the  mediocrity  of  this  second-rate  poet 
turned  symphonist.  Image  after  image  pressed 
upon  her  brain,  each  more  pessimistic,  more 
depressing  than  its  predecessor.  Alixe  could 
have  wept.  Her  companion  placed  his  hand 
on  her  arm.  His  fingers  burned ;  she  moved, 
but  she  felt  his  will  controlling  her  mood.  With 
high  relief  she  heard  the  music  end.  There  was 
conventional  applause.  Alixe  restlessly  peered 
into  the  auditorium.  Again  she  saw  opera-glasses 
turned  toward  the  box.  "  Our  good  friends,"  she 
rather  bitterly  thought.  Rentgen  recognized 
her  mental  turmoil. 

"  Don't  worry,"  he  said  soothingly.  "  It  will 
be  all  right  to-morrow  morning.  What  I  write 
will  make  the  fortune  of  the  composition."  He 
did  not  utter  this  vaingloriously,  but  as  a  m&n 
who  stated  simple  truth.  She  gazed  at  him,  her 
timidity  and  nervousness  returning  in  full  tide. 

"  I  know  I  am  overwrought.  I  should  be 
thankful.  But  —  but,  isn't  it  deception  —  I 
mean,  will  it  be  fair  to  conceal  from  Richard 
the  real  condition  of  affairs  ? "  He  took  her 
hand. 


VISIONARIES 

"  Spoken  like  a  true  wife,"  he  gayly  exclaimed. 
"  My  dear  friend,  there  will  be  no  deception. 
Only  encouragement,  a  little  encouragement. 
As  for  deceiving  a  composer,  telling  him  that 
he  may  not  be  so  wonderful  as  he  thinks  — 
that's  impossible.  I  know  these  star-shoulder- 
ing souls,  these  farmers  of  phantasms  who  exist 
in  a  world  by  themselves.  It  would  be  a  pity 
to  let  in  the  cold  air  of  reality  —  anyhow  Van 
Kuyp  has  some  talent." 

Like  lifting  mists  revealing  the  treacherous 
borders  of  a  masked  pool,  she  felt  this  speech 
with  its  ironic  innuendo.  She  flushed,  her 
vanity  irritated.  Rentgen  saw  her  eyes  con- 
tract. 

"  Let  us  go  when  the  symphony  begins,"  she 
begged,  "  I  can't  talk  to  any  one  in  my  present 
bad  humour;  and  to  hear  Beethoven  would 
drive  me  mad  —  now." 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  remarked  her  companion, 
consolingly.  Alixe  winced. 

The  silver-cold  fire  of  an  undecided  moon  was 
abroad  in  the  sky  and  rumours  of  spring  filled 
the  air.  They  parted  at  a  fiacre.  He  told  her 
he  would  call  the  next  afternoon,  and  she 
nodded  an  unforgiving  head.  It  was  her  turn 
to  be  disagreeable. 

In  his  music  room,  Van  Kuyp  read  a  volume 
of  verse.  He  did  not  hear  his  wife  enter.  It 
pained  her  when  she  saw  his  serious  face  with 
its  undistinguished  features  and  dogged  ex- 
pression. No  genius  this,  was  her  hasty  ver- 
8 


A  MASTER  OF  COBWEBS 

diet,  as  she  quickly  went  to  him  and  put  a  hand 
on  his  head.  It  was  her  hand  now  that  was 
hot.  He  raised  eyes,  dolent  with  dreams. 

"Well?"  he  queried. 

"  You  are  a  curious  man  !  "  she  said  wonder- 
ingly.  "Aren't  you  interested  in  the  news 
about  your  symphonic  poem?"  He  smiled 
the  smile  of  the  fatuous  elect.  "  I  imagine  it 
went  all  right,"  he  languidly  replied.  "  I  heard 
it  at  rehearsal  yesterday  —  I  suppose  Theleme 
took  the  tempi  too  slow!  " 

She  sighed  and  asked :  — 

"What  are  you  reading  a  night  like  this?" 
His  expression  became  animated. 

"A  volume  of  Celtic  poetry  —  I've  found  a 
stunning  idea  for  music.  What  a  tone-poem  it 
will  make!  Here  it  is.  What  colour,  what 
rhythms.  It  is  called  The  Shadowy  Horses. 
*  I  hear  the  shadowy  horses,  their  long  manes 
a-shake'  —  " 

"  Who  gave  you  the  poem  ? " 

"  Oh,  Rentgen,  of  course.  Did  you  see  him 
to-night?" 

"  You  dear  boy  !  You  must  be  tired  to  death. 
Better  rest.  The  critics  will  get  you  up  early 
enough." 

Through  interminable  hours  the  mind  of  Alixe 
revolved  about  a  phrase  she  had  picked  up 
from  Elvard  Rentgen:  "Music  is  a  trap  for 
weak  souls;  for  the  strong  as  the  spinning  of 
cobwebs.  ,  ." 


VISIONARIES 

II 

It  was  pompous  July  and  the  Van  Kuyps 
were  still  in  Paris.  They  lived  near  Passy  — 
from  her  windows  high  in  the  air  Alixe  caught 
the  green  at  dawn  as  the  sun  lifted  level  rays. 
Richard  was  writing  his  new  tone-poem,  which 
the  Societe  Harmonique  accepted  provisionally 
for  the  season  following.  Sordello  had  set  the 
town  agog  because  of  the  exhaustive  articles 
by  Rentgen  it  brought  in  its  wake.  He  was  a 
critic  who  wrote  brilliantly  of  music  in  the  terms 
of  painting,  of  plastic  arts  in  the  technical 
phraseology  of  music,  and  by  him  the  drama 
was  discussed  purely  as  literature.  This  de- 
liberate and  delicate  confusion  of  aesthetics 
clouded  the  public  mind.  He  described  Sor- 
dello as  a  vast  mural  fresco,  a  Puvis  de  Cha- 
vannes  in  tone,  a  symphonic  drama  wherein 
agonized  the  shadowy  ^Eschylean  protagonist. 
Even  sculpture  was  rifled  for  analogies,  and 
Van  Kuyp  to  his  bewilderment  found  himself 
called  "  The  Rodin  of  Music  " ;  at  other  times, 
"  Richard  Strauss  II,"  or  a  "  Tonal  Browning  "  ; 
finally,  he  was  adjured  to  swerve  not  from  the 
path  he  had  so  wonderfully  hewn  for  himself  in 
the  virgin  jungle  of  modern  art,  and  begged  to 
resist  the  temptations  of  the  music-drama. 

Rentgen     loathed     the    music    of    Wagner. 

Wagner  had  abused  Meyerbeer  for  doing  what 

he   did   himself  —  writing   operas   stuffed  with 

spectacular   effects.      This   man   of    the    foot- 

10 


A  MASTER  OF   COBWEBS 

lights  destroyed  all  musical  imagination  with  his 
puppet  shows,  magic  lanterns,  Turkish  bazaars, 
where,  to  the  booming  of  mystic  bells,  the  lis- 
tener was  drugged  into  opium-fed  visions. 

Under  a  tent,  as  at  a  fair,  he  assembled  the 
mangled  masterpieces  of  Bach,  Gluck,  Beethoven, 
Weber,  Schubert,  Schumann,  Chopin,  and  to  a 
gullible  public  sold  the  songs  of  these  music- 
lords  —  songs  that  should  swim  on  high  like 
great  swan-clouds  cleaving  skies  blue  and  inac- 
cessible. And  his  music  was  operatic,  after  all, 
grand  opera  saccharine  with  commonplace 
melodies  gorgeously  attired  —  nothing  more. 
Wagner,  declared  the  indignant  critic,  was  not 
original.  He  popularized  the  noble  ideas  of  the 
masters,  vulgarized  and  debased  their  dreams. 
He  never  conceived  a  single  new  melody,  but 
substituted  instead,  sadly  mauled  and  pinched 
thematic  fragments  of  Liszt,  Berlioz,  and  Bee- 
thoven, combined  with  exaggerated  fairy-tales, 
clothed  in  showy  tinsel  and  theatrical  gauds,  the 
illusion  being  aided  by  panoramic  scenery; 
scenery  that  acted  in  company  with  toads, 
dragons,  horses,  snakes,  crazy  valkyrs,  mer- 
maids, half-mad  humans,  gods,  demons,  dwarfs, 
and  giants.  What  else  is  all  this  but  old-fash- 
ioned Italian  opera  with  a  new  name?  What 
else  but  an  inartistic  mixture  of  Scribe  libretto 
and  Northern  mythology  ?  Music-drama  — 
fudge !  Making  music  that  one  can  see  is  a 
death-blow  to  a  lofty  idealization  of  the  art. 

Puzzled  by  the  richness  of  Rentgen's  vocabu- 
ii 


VISIONARIES 

lary,  by  his  want  of  logic,  Alixe  asked  herself 
many  times  whether  she  was  wrong  and  her 
husband  right.  She  wished  to  be  loyal.  His  de- 
votion to  his  work,  his  inspiration  springing  as 
it  did  from  poetic  sources,  counted  for  some- 
thing. Why  not  ?  All  composers  should  read 
the  poets.  It  is  a  starting-point.  Modern  mu- 
sic leans  heavily  on  drama  and  fiction.  Richard 
Strauss  embroiders  philosophical  ideas,  so  why 
should  not  Richard  Van  Kuyp  go  to  Ireland,  to 
the  one  land  where  there  is  hope  of  a  spiritual, 
a  poetic  renascence  ?  Ireland !  The  very  name 
evoked  dreams ! 

When  Rentgen  called  at  the  Van  Kuyps'  it 
was  near  the  close  of  a  warm  afternoon.  The 
composer  would  not  stir,  despite  the  invitation 
of  the  critic  or  the  pleading  of  his  wife.  He 
knew  that  the  angel  wings  of  inspiration  had 
been  brushing  his  brow  all  the  morning,  and 
such  visits  were  too  rare  to  be  flouted.  He  sat 
at  his  piano  and  in  a  composer's  raucous  varied 
voice,  imitated  the  imaginary  timbres  of  orches- 
tral instruments.  Sent  forth,  Mrs.  Van  Kuyp 
and  Rentgen  slowly  walked  into  the  little  Pare 
of  Auteuil,  once  the  joy  of  the  Goncourts. 

"  Musicians  are  as  selfish  as  the  sea,"  he 
asserted,  as  they  sat  upon  a  bench  of  tepid  iron. 
She  did  not  demur.  The  weather  had  exhausted 
her  patience ;  she  was  young  and  fond  of  the 
open  air  —  the  woods  made  an  irresistible  picture 
this  day.  The  critic  watched  her  changing,  dis- 
satisfied face. 

12 


A  MASTER  OF  COBWEBS 

"  Shall  we  ride  ? "  he  suddenly  asked.  Before 
she  could  shake  a  negative  head,  he  quickly 
uttered  the  words  that  had  been  hovering  in  her 
mind  for  hours. 

"  Or,  shall  we  go  to  the  Bois  ? "  She  started. 
"  What  an  idea  !  Go  to  the  Bois  without  Rich- 
ard, without  my  husband  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  inquired,  "  it's  not  far  away. 
Send  him  a  wire  asking  him  to  join  us ;  it  will 
do  him  good  after  his  labours.  Come,  Madame 
Van  Kuyp,  come  Alixe,  my  child."  He  paused. 
Her  eyes  expanded.  "  I'll  go,"  she  quietly  an- 
nounced —  "  that  is,  if  you  grant  me  a  favour." 

"  A  hundred !  "  he  triumphantly  cried. 

Ill 

To  soothe  her  conscience,  which  began  to 
ring  faint  alarm-bells  at  sundown,  Alixe  sent  sev- 
eral despatches  to  her  husband,  and  then  tried 
a  telephone ;  but  she  was  not  successful.  Her 
mood  shifted  chilly,  and  they  bored  each  other 
immeasurably  on  the  long  promenade  vibrating 
with  gypsy  music  and  frivolous  folk. 

It  was  after  seven  o'clock  as  the  sun  slowly 
swam  down  the  sky-line.  Decidedly  their  little 
flight  from  the  prison  of  stone  was  not  offering 
rich  recompense  to  Alixe  Van  Kuyp  and  her 
elderly  companion. 

"  And  now  for  the  favour  !  "  he  demanded,  his 
eyes  contentedly  resting  upon  the  graceful  ex- 
panse of  his  guest's  figure. 
13 


VISIONARIES 

She  moved  restlessly :  "  My  dear  Rentgen,  I  am 
about  to  ask  you  a  question,  only  a  plain  question. 
That  is  the  favour."  He  bowed  incredulously. 

"  I  must  know  the  truth  about  Richard.  It  is 
a  serious  matter,  this  composing  of  his.  He 
neglects  his  pupils  —  most  of  them  Americans 
who  come  to  Paris  to  study  with  him.  Yet  with 
the  reputation  he  has  attained,  due  to  you  en- 
tirely "  —  she  waved  away  an  interruption  — 
"  he  refuses  to  write  songs  or  piano  music  that 
will  sell.  He  is  an  incorrigible  idealist  and  I 
confess  I  am  discouraged.  What  can  be  our 
future  ? "  She  drew  the  deep  breath  of  one  in 
peril ;  this  plain  talk  devoid  of  all  sham  morti- 
fied her  exceedingly. 

She  was  thankful  that  he  did  not  attempt  to 
play  the  role  of  fatherly  adviser.  His  eyes  were 
quite  sincere  when  he  answered  her  :  — 

"  What  you  say,  Alixe  — "  the  familiarity 
brought  with  it  no  condescending  reverberations 
—  "  has  bothered  me  more  than  once.  I  shall 
be  just  as  frank  on  my  side.  No,  your  husband 
has  but  little  talent ;  original  talent,  none.  He  is 
mediocre  —  wait !  "  She  started,  her  cheeks  red 
with  the  blood  that  fled  her  heart  when  she 
heard  this  doleful  news.  "  Wait !  There  are 
qualifications.  In  the  first  place,  what  do  you 
expect  from  an  American  ? " 

"  But  you  always  write  so  glowingly  of  oui 
composers,"  she  interjected. 

"  And,"  he  went  on  as  if  she  had  not  spoken, 
"  Van  Kuyp  is  your  typical  countryman.  He 
14 


A  MASTER  OF  COBWEBS 

has  studied  in  Germany.  He  has  muddled  his 
brain  with  the  music  of  a  dozen  different  na- 
tions ;  if  he  had  had  any  individuality  it  would 
have  been  submerged.  His  memory  has  killed 
his  imagination.  He  borrows  his  inspiration 
from  the  poets,  from  Liszt,  Wagner,  Berlioz, 
Richard  Strauss.  Anyhow,  like  all  musicians  of 
his  country,  he  is  too  painfully  self-conscious  of 
his  nationality." 

"  You,  alone,  are  responsible  for  his  present 
ambitions,"  retorted  the  unhappy  woman. 

"  Quite  true,  my  dear  friend.  I  acknowledge 
it." 

"  And  you  say  this  to  my  face  ?  " 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  lie  ? "  She  did  not  re- 
ply. After  a  grim  pause  she  burst  forth  :  — 

"  Oh,  why  doesn't  he  compose  an  opera,  and 
make  a  popular  name  ?  " 

"  Richard  Wagner  Number  II !  "  There  were 
implications  of  sarcasm  in  this  which  greatly 
displeased  Mrs.  Van  Kuyp.  They  strolled  on 
slowly.  It  was  a  melodious  summer  night ;  mauve 
haze  screened  all  but  the  exquisite  large  stars. 
Soothed  despite  rebellion,  Alixe  told  herself 
sharply  that  in  every  duel  with  this  man  she 
was  worsted.  He  said  things  that  scratched  her 
nerves;  yet  she  forgave.  He  had  not  the 
slightest  attraction  for  her ;  nevertheless,  when 
he  spoke,  she  listened,  when  he  wrote,  she  read. 
He  ruled  the  husband  through  his  music ;  he 
ruled  her  through  her  husband.  And  what  did 
he  expect  ? 


VISIONARIES 

They  retraced  their  way.  A  fantastic  bridge 
spanning  the  brief  marshland,  frozen  by  the 
moonlight,  appealed  to  them.  They  crossed. 
A  coachman  driving  an  open  carriage  hailed 
confidentially.  Alixe  entered  and  with  a  dex- 
terous play  of  draperies  usurped  the  back  seat. 
Rentgen  made  no  sign.  He  had  her  in  full 
view,  the  moon  streaking  her  disturbed  features 
with  its  unflattering  pencil. 

They  started  bravely,  the  horses  running  for 
home ;  but  the  rapid  gait  soon  subsided  into  a 
rhythmic  trot.  Rentgen  spoke.  She  hardly 
recognized  his  voice,  so  gently  monotonous  were 
his  phrases. 

"  Dear  Alixe.  It  is  a  night  for  confessions. 
You  care  for  your  husband,  you  are  wrapped 
up  in  his  art  work,  you  are  solicitous  of  his  fu- 
ture, of  his  fame.  It  is  admirable.  You  are  a 
model  wife  for  an  artist.  But  tell  me  frankly, 
doesn't  it  bore  you  to  death  ?  Doesn't  all  this 
talk  of  music,  themes,  orchestration,  of  the  pub- 
lic, critics,  musicians,  conductors,  get  on  your 
nerves  ?  Is  it  any  consolation  for  you  to  know 
that  Van  Kuyp  will  be  famous  ?  What  is  his 
fame  or  his  failure  to  you  ?  Where  do  you, 
Alixe  Van  Kuyp,  come  in?  Why  must  your 
charming  woman's  soul  be  sacrificed,  warped  to 
this  stunted  tree  of  another's  talent  ?  You  are 
silent.  You  say  he  is  trying  to  make  me  deny 
Richard !  You  were  never  more  mistaken.  I 
am  interested  in  you  both ;  interested  in  you  as 
a  noble  woman  —  stop !  I  mean  it.  And  in« 
16 


A  MASTER  OF  COBWEBS 

terested  in  Richard  —  well  —  because  he  is  my 
own  creation.  .  .  ." 

She  watched  him  now  with  her  heart  in  her 
eyes ;  he  frightened  her  more  with  these  low, 
purring  words,  than  if  he  declared  open  love. 

"  He  is  my  own  handiwork.  I  have  created 
him.  I  have  fashioned  his  outlines,  have 
wound  up  the  mechanism  that  moves  him  to 
compose.  Did  you  ever  read  that  terrifying 
thought  of  Yeats,  the  Irish  poet  ?  I've  for- 
gotten the  story,  but  remember  the  idea :  '  The 
beautiful  arts  were  sent  into  the  world  to  over- 
throw nations,  and,  finally,  life  itself,  sowing 
everywhere  unlimited  desires,  like  torches 
thrown  into  a  burning  city.'  There  —  'like 
torches  thrown  into  a  burning  city  ! '  Richard 
Van  Kuyp  is  one  of  my  burning  torches.  In 
the  spectacle  of  his  impuissance  I  find  relief 
from  my  own  suffering." 

The  booming  of  the  Tzigane  band  was  no 
longer  heard  —  only  the  horses'  muffled  foot- 
falls and  the  intermittent  chromatic  drone  of 
hidden  distant  tram-cars.  She  shivered  and 
shaded  her  face  with  her  fan.  There  was  some- 
thing remote  from  humanity  in  his  speech.  He 
continued  with  increasing  vivacity :  — 

"  Music  is  a  burning  torch.  And  music,  like 
ideas,  can  slay  the  brain.  Wagner  borrowed 
his  harmonic  fire  from  the  torch  of  Chopin  — " 
She  broke  in  :  — 

"  Don't  talk  of  Chopin !  Tell  me  more  of 
Van  Kuyp.  Why  do  you  call  him  yours  f " 

17 


VISIONARIES 

Her  curiosity  was  become  pain.  It  mastered 
her  prudence. 

"In  far-away  Celtic  legends  there  may  be 
found  a  lovely  belief  that  our  thoughts  are 
independent  realities,  that  they  go  about  in  the 
void  seeking  creatures  to  control.  They  are  as 
bodiless  souls.  When  they  descend  into  a 
human  being  they  possess  his  moods,  in  very 
existence  —  " 

"  And  Richard !  "  she  muttered.  His  words 
swayed  her  like  strange  music;  the  country 
through  which  they  were  passing  was  a  blank ; 
she  could  see  but  two  luminous  points  —  the 
nocturnal  eyes  of  Eivard  Rentgen,  as  he  spun 
his  cobwebs  in  the  moonshine.  She  did  not 
fear  him ;  nothing  could  frighten  her  now.  One 
desire  held  her.  If  it  were  unslaked,  she  felt 
she  would  collapse.  It  was  to  know  the  truth, 
to  be  told  everything!  He  put  restraining 
fingers  on  her  ungloved  hand ;  they  seemed  like 
cold,  fat  spiders.  Yet  she  was  only  curious, 
with  a  curiosity  that  murdered  the  spirit  within 
her. 

"  To  transfuse  these  shadows,  my  dear  Alixe, 
has  been  one  of  my  delights,  for  I  can  project 
my  futile  desires  into  another's  soul.  I  am 
denied  the  gift  of  music-making,  so  this  is  my 
revenge  on  nature  for  bungling  its  job.  If 
Richard  had  genius,  my  intervention  would  be 
superfluous.  He  has  none.  He  is  dull  You 
must  realize  it.  But  since  he  has  known  me, 
has  felt  my  influence,  has  been  subject  to  my 
18 


A  MASTER  OF  COBWEBS 

volition,  my  sorcery,  you  may  call  it, — "  his 
laugh  was  disagreeably  conscious,  — "  he  has 
developed  the  shadow  of  a  great  man.  He  will 
seem  a  great  composer.  I  shall  make  him  think 
he  is  one.  I  shall  make  the  world  believe  it, 
also.  It  is  my  fashion  of  squaring  a  life  I  hate. 
But  if  I  chose  to  withdraw  —  " 

The  road  they  entered  was  black  and  full  of 
the  buzzing  shadows  of  hot  night,  but  she  was 
oblivious  to  everything  but  his  hallucinating 
voice :  — 

"  And  if  you  withdraw  ? "  Her  mouth  echoed 
phrases  without  the  complicity  of  her  brain. 

"  If  I  do  —  ah,  these  cobweb  spinners ! 
Good-by  to  Richard  Van  Kuyp  and  dreams  of 
glory."  This  note  of  harsh  triumph  snapped 
his  weaving  words. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  or  your  boasts,"  re- 
marked Alixe,  in  her  most  conventionally  amused 
manner.  "  You  are  trying  to  scare  me,  and 
with  this  hypnotic  joke  about  Richard  you  have 
only  hypnotized  yourself.  I  mean  to  tell  Mr. 
Van  Kuyp  every  bit  of  our  conversation.  I'm 
not  frightened  by  your  vampire  tales.  You 
critics  are  only  shadows  of  composers." 

"  Yes,  but  we  make  ordinary  composers  be- 
lieve they  are  great,"  he  replied  acridly. 

"  I'll  tell  this  to  Richard." 

"  He  won't  believe  you." 

"  He  shall  —  he  won't  believe  you  !  Oh, 
Rentgen,  how  can  you  invent  such  cruel  things  ? 
Are  you  always  so  malicious?  What  do  you 

19 


VISIONARIES 

mean?  Come  —  what  do  you  expect?"  She 
closed  her  eyes,  anticipating  an  avowal.  Why 
should  a  man  seek  to  destroy  her  faith  in  her 
husband,  in  love  itself,  if  not  for  some  selfish 
purpose  of  his  own  ?  But  she  was  wrong,  and 
became  vaguely  alarmed  —  at  least  if  he  had 
offered  his  service  and  sympathy  in  exchange 
for  her  friendship,  she  might  have  understood 
his  fantastic  talk.  Rentgen  sourly  reflected  — 
despite  epigrams,  women  never  vary.  For  him 
her  sentiment  was  suburban.  It  strangled 
poetry.  But  he  said  nothing,  though  she 
imagined  he  looked  depressed ;  nor  did  he  open 
his  mouth  as  the  carriage  traversed  avenues 
of  processional  poplars  before  arriving  at  her 
door.  She  turned  to  him  imploringly :  — 

"  You  must  come  with  me.  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  go  in  alone,  without  an  excuse.  Don't 
—  don't  repeat  to  Richard  what  you  said  to  me, 
in  joke,  I  am  sure,  about  his  music.  Heavens ! 
What  will  my  husband  think  ? "  There  was  de- 
spair in  her  voice,  but  hopefulness  in  her  gait 
and  gesture,  when  they  reached  the  ill-lighted 
hall. 

A  night-lamp  stood  on  the  composer's  study 
table.  The  piano  was  open.  He  sat  at  the  key- 
board, though  not  playing,  as  they  hurriedly  en- 
tered the  room. 

"  You  poor  fellow !    You  look  worn  out.     Did 

you  think  we  had  run  away  from  you  ?     Did  you 

get  the  wires,  the  telephone  messages  ?    Oh,  why 

did  you  keep  us  expecting  you,  Richard !     We 

20 


A  MASTER  OF  COBWEBS 

have  had  a  wonderful  time  and  missed  you  so 
much !  Such  a  talk  with  Rentgen !  And  all 
about  you.  Nicht  wahr,  Rentgen  ?  He  says 
you  are  the  only  man  in  the  world  with  a  musi- 
cal future.  Isn't  that  so,  Rentgen  ?  Didn't  you 
say  that  Richard  was  the  only  man  in  whom  you 
took  any  interest  ?  Say  what  you  said  to  me ! 
I  dare  you  !  " 

The  musician,  aroused  by  this  wordy  assault, 
looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  his  heavy 
eyes,  the  eyes  of  an  owl  rudely  disturbed.  Alixe 
almost  danced  her  excitement.  She  hummed 
shrilly  and  grasped  Van  Kuyp's  arm  in  the  gay- 
est rebounding  humour. 

"Why  don't  you  speak,  Maestro?" 

"  I  didn't  join  you  because  I  was  too  busy  at 
my  score.  Listen,  children !  I  have  sketched 
the  beginning  of  The  Shadowy  Horses.  You 
remember  the  Yeats  poem,  Rentgen  ?  Listen !  " 

Furiously  he  attacked  the  instrument,  from 
which  escaped  accents  of  veritable  torture;  a 
delirium  of  tone  followed,  meagre  melodies  fight- 
ing for  existence  in  the  boiling  madness  of  it  all ; 
it  was  the  parody  of  a  parody,  the  music  of  yes- 
terday masquerading  as  the  music  of  to-morrow. 
Alixe  nervously  watched  the  critic.  He  stood 
at  the  end  of  the  piano  and  morosely  fumbled 
his  beard.  Again  a  wave  of  anxious  hatred,  fol- 
lowed by  forebodings,  crowded  her  alert  brain. 
She  desperately  clutched  her  husband's  shoulder ; 
he  finished  in  a  burst  of  sheer  pounding  and 
brutal  roaring.  Then  she  threw  her  arms  about 

21 


VISIONARIES 

him  in  an  ecstasy  of  pride  —  her  confidence  was 
her  only  anchorage. 

"  There,  Elvard  Rentgen !  What  did  you  tell 
me  ?  I  dare  you  to  say  that  this  music  is  not 
marvellous,  not  original !  "  Her  victorious  gaze, 
in  which  floated  indomitable  faith,  challenged 
him,  as  she  drew  the  head  of  her  husband  to  her 
protecting  bosom.  The  warring  of  exasperated 
eyes  endured  a  moment;  to  Alixe  it  seemed 
eternity.  Rentgen  bowed  and  went  away  from 
this  castle  of  cobwebs,  deeply  stirred  by  the  wife's 
tender  untruths.  .  .  .  She  was  the  last  dawn 
illuminating  his  empty,  sordid  life,  —  now  a 
burnt  city  of  defaced  dreams  and  blackened 
torches. 


22 


II 

I 

THE   EIGHTH    DEADLY   SIN 

Now  the  serpent  was  more  subtle  than  any  beast  of  the 
field  which  the  Lord  God  had  made.  —  Genesis. 


THE  SERMON 

"  AND  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins,  beloved  breth- 
ren, are :  Pride,  Covetousness,  Lust,  Anger, 
Gluttony,  Envy,  Sloth.  To  these  our  wise 
Mother,  the  Church,  opposes  the  contrary  vir- 
tues:  Humility,  Chastity,  Meekness,  Temper- 
ance, Brotherly  Love,  Diligence."  The  voice  of 
the  preacher  was  clear  and  well  modulated.  It 
penetrated  to  the  remotest  corner  of  the  church. 
Baldur,  sitting  near  the  pulpit,  with  its  elaborate 
traceries  of  marble,  idly  wondered  why  the  sins 
were,  with  few  exceptions,  words  of  one  syllable, 
while  those  of  the  virtues  were  all  longer.  Per- 
haps because  it  was  easier  to  sin  than  to  repent ! 
The  voice  of  the  speaker  deepened  as  he  con- 
tinued :  — 

"  Now  the  Seven  Deadly  Arts  are :  Music, 
Literature,  Painting,  Sculpture,  Architecture, 
Dancing,  Acting.  The  mercy  of  God  has  luckily 
purified  these  once  pagan  inventions,  and  trans- 

23 


VISIONARIES 

formed  them  into  saving  instruments  of  grace. 
Yet  it  behooves  us  to  examine  with  the  utmost 
diligence  the  possible  sources  of  evil  latent  in 
each  and  every  one  of  those  arts.  Then  we 
shall  consider  some  of  the  special  forms  of  sin 
that  may  develop  from  them.  St.  Chrysostom 
warned  the  faithful  against  the  danger  of  the 
Eighth  Deadly  Art  — Perfume.  .  .  ." 

His  phrases,  which  began  to  fall  into  the 
rhythmic  drone  of  a  Sunday  sermon,  lulled 
Baldur  to  dreaming.  Perfume  —  that  delicious 
vocable  !  And  the  contrast  with  what  his  own 
nostrils  reported  to  his  consciousness  made  him 
slightly  shiver.  It  was  on  a  Friday  night  in  Lent 
that,  weary  in  flesh  and  spirit,  his  conscience 
out  of  tune,  he  had  entered  the  church  and  taken 
the  first  vacant  seat.  Without,  the  air  was  slug- 
gish ;  after  leaving  his  club  the  idea  of  theatres 
or  calls  had  set  his  teeth  on  edge.  He  longed 
to  be  alone,  to  weigh  in  the  silence  of  his  heart 
the  utter  futility  of  life.  Religion  had  never 
been  a  part  of  his  training  as  the  only  son  of  a 
millionnaire,  and  if  he  preferred  the  Roman 
Catholic  ritual  above  all  others,  it  was  because  the 
appeal  was  to  his  aesthetic  sense ;  a  Turkish 
mosque,  he  assured  his  friends,  produced  the 
same  soothing  impression  —  gauze  veils  gently 
waving  and  slowly  obscuring  the  dulling  realities 
of  everyday  existence.  This  morbidezza  of  the 
spirit  the  Mahometans  call  Kef ;  the  Christians, 
pious  ecstasy. 

But  now  he  could  not  plunge  himself,  despite 
24 


THE  EIGHTH  DEADLY  SIN 

the  faint  odour  of  incense  lingering  in  the  atmos- 
phere, into  the  deepest  pit  of  his  personality. 
At  first  he  ascribed  his  restlessness  to  the  sultry 
weather,  then  to  his  abuse  of  tea  and  cigarettes, 
—  perhaps  it  was  the  sharp  odour  of  the  average 
congregation,  that  collective  odour  of  humanity 
encountered  in  church,  theatre,  or  court-rooms. 
The  smell  of  poverty  was  mingled  with  the 
heavy  scents  of  fashionable  women,  who,  in  the 
minority,  made  their  presence  felt  by  their  showy 
gowns,  rustling  movements,  and  attitudes  of  su- 
perior boredom.  In  a  vast  building  like  this 
extremes  touch  with  eagerness  on  the  part  of 
the  poor,  to  whom  these  furtive  views  of  the 
rich  and  indolent  brought  with  them  a  bitter 
consolation. 

Baldur  remarked  these  things  as  he  leaned 
back  in  his  hard  seat  and  barely  listened  to  the 
sermon,  which  poured  forth  as  though  the  tap 
would  never  be  turned  off  again.  And  then  a 
delicate  note  of  iris,  most  episcopal  of  perfumes, 
emerged  from  the  mass  of  odours  —  musk,  gar- 
lic, damp  shoes,  alcohol,  shabby  clothing,  rubber, 
pomade,  cologne,  rice-powder,  tobacco,  patchouli, 
sachet,  and  a  hundred  other  tintings  of  the 
earthly  symphony.  The  finely  specialized  ol- 
factory sense  of  the  young  man  told  him  that  it 
was  either  a  bishop  or  a  beautiful  woman  who 
imparted  to  the  air  the  subtle,  penetrating  aroma 
of  iris.  But  it  was  neither  ecclesiastic  nor  maid. 
At  his  side  was  a  short,  rather  thick-set  woman 
of  vague  age ;  she  might  have  been  twenty-five 

25 


VISIONARIES 

or  forty.  Her  hair  was  cut  in  masculine  fash- 
ion, her  attire  unattractive.  As  clearly  as  he 
could  distinguish  her  features  he  saw  that  she 
was  not  good-looking.  A  stern  mask  it  was, 
though  not  hardened.  He  would  not  have 
looked  at  such  an  ordinary  physiognomy  twice 
if  the  iris  had  not  sign  ailed,, his  peculiar  sense. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  to  her  it  was  due. 
Susceptible  as  he  was  to  odours,  Baldur  was  not 
a  ladies'  man.  He  went  into  society  because  it 
was  his  world ;  and  he  attended  in  a  perfunctory 
manner  to  the  enormous  estate  left  him  by  his 
father,  bound  up  in  a  single  trust  company. 
But  his  thoughts  were  always  three  thousand 
miles  away,  in  that  delectable  city  of  cities,  Paris. 
For  Paris  he  suffered  a  painful  nostalgia.  There 
he  met  his  true  brethren,  while  in  New  York  he 
felt  an  alien.  He  was  one.  The  city,  with  its 
high,  narrow  streets  —  granite  tunnels ;  its  rude 
reverberations  ;  its  colourless,  toiling  barbarians, 
with  their  undistinguished  physiognomies,  their 
uncouth  indifference  to  art,  —  he  did  not  deny 
that  he  loathed  this  nation,  vibrating  only  in  the 
presence  of  money,  sports,  grimy  ward  politics, 
while  exhibiting  a  depressing  snobbery  to  things 
British.  There  was  no  nuance  in  its  life  or  its 
literature,  he  asserted.  France  was  his  patrie 
psychique  ;  he  would  return  there  some  day  and 
forever.  .  .  . 

The  iris  crept  under  his  nostrils,  and  again  he 
regarded  the  woman.     This  time  she  faced  him, 
and  he  no  longer  wondered,  for  he  saw  her  eyes. 
26 


THE  EIGHTH  DEADLY  SIN 

With  such  eyes  only  a  great  soul  could  be  im- 
prisoned in  her  brain.  They  were  smoke-gray, 
with  long,  dark  lashes,  and  they  did  not  seem 
to  focus  perfectly  —  at  least  there  was  enough 
deflection  to  make  their  expression  odd,  withal 
interesting,  like  the  slow  droop  of  Eleonora 
Duse's  magic  eye.  Though  her  features  were 
rigid,  the  woman's  glance  spoke  to  Baldur,  spoke 
eloquently.  Her  eyes  were  —  or  was  it  the  iris  ? 
—  symbols  of  a  soul-state,  of  a  rare  emotion,  not 
of  sex,  nor  yet  sexless.  The  pupils  seemed 
powdered  with  a  strange  iridescence.  He  be- 
came more  troubled  than  before.  What  did  the 
curious  creature  want  of  him  !  She  was  neither 
coquette  nor  cocotte,  flirtation  was  not  hinted  by 
her  intense  expression.  He  resumed  his  former 
position,  but  her  eyes  made  his  shoulders  burn, 
as  if  they  had  sufficient  power  to  bore  through 
them.  He  no  longer  paid  any  attention  to  his 
surroundings.  The  sermon  was  like  the  sound 
of  far-away  falling  waters,  the  worshippers  were 
so  many  black  marks.  Of  two  things  was  he 
aware  —  the  odour  of  iris  and  her  eyes. 

He  knew  that  he  was  in  an  overwrought 
mood.  For  some  weeks  this  mood  had  been 
descending  upon  his  spirit,  like  a  pall.  He  had 
avoided  music,  pictures,  the  opera — which  he 
never  regarded  as  an  art;  even  his  favourite 
poets  he  could  not  read.  Nor  did  he  degustate, 
as  was  his  daily  wont,  the  supreme  prose  of 
the  French  masters.  The  pleasures  of  robust 
stomachs,  gourmandizing  and  drinking,  were  de- 
27 


VISIONARIES 

nied  him  by  nature.  He  could  not  sip  a  glass 
of  wine,  and  for  meat  he  entertained  distaste. 
His  physique  proved  him  to  be  of  the  neurotic 
temperament  —  he  was  very  tall,  very  slim,  of 
an  exceeding  elegance,  in  dress  a  finical  dandy ; 
while  his  trim  pointed  blue-black  beard  and 
dark,  foreign  eyes  were  the  cause  of  his  being 
mistaken  often  for  a  Frenchman  or  a  Spaniard 
—  which  illusion  was  not  dissipated  when  he 
chose  to  speak  their  several  tongues. 

Involuntarily,  and  to  the  ire  of  his  neighbours, 
he  arose  and  indolently  made  his  way  down  the 
side  aisle.  When  he  reached  the  baize  swing- 
ing doors,  he  saw  the  woman  approaching  him. 
As  if  she  had  been  an  acquaintance  of  years, 
she  saluted  him  carelessly,  and,  accompanied  by 
the  scandalized  looks  of  many  in  the  congrega- 
tion, the  pair  left  the  church,  though  not  before 
the  preacher  had  sonorously  quoted  from  the 
Psalm,  Domine  ne  in  Fttrore,  "  For  my  loins 
are  filled  with  illusions ;  and  there  is  no  health 
in  my  flesh." 

II 
THE   SEANCE 

Je  cherche  des  parfums  nouveaux,  des  fleurs  plus  larges, 
des  plaisirs  in£prouv£s.  —  FLAUBERT. 

"  It  may  be  all  a  magnificent  illusion,  but  —  " 
he  began. 

"  Everything  is  an  illusion  in  this  life,  though 
seldom  magnificent,"  she  answered.  They  slowly 
28 


THE   EIGHTH  DEADLY  SIN 

walked  up  the  avenue.  The  night  was  tepid-, 
motor  cars,  looking  like  magnified  beetles,  with 
bulging  eyes  of  fire,  went  swiftly  by.  The  pave- 
ments were  almost  deserted  when  they  reached 
the  park.  He  felt  as  if  hypnotized,  and  once, 
rather  meanly,  was  glad  that  no  one  saw  him  in 
company  of  his  dowdy  companion. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  realize  that  we  do  not  know 
each  other's  name,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  yes.  You  are  Mr.  Baldur.  My  name 
is  Mrs.  Lilith  Whistler." 

"  Mrs.  Whistler.     Not  the  medium  ? " 

"  The  medium  —  as  you  call  it.  In  reality  I 
am  only  a  woman,  happy,  or  unhappy,  in  the 
possession  of  super-normal  powers." 

"  Not  supernatural,  then  ? "  he  interposed. 
He  was  a  sceptic  who  called  himself  agnostic. 
The  mystery  of  earth  and  heaven  might  be  in- 
terpreted, but  always  in  terms  of  science  ;  yet 
he  did  not  fancy  the  superior  manner  in  which 
this  charlatan  flouted  the  supernatural.  He 
had  heard  of  her  miracles  —  and  doubted  them. 
She  gave  a  little  laugh  at  his  correction. 

"What  phrase-jugglers  you  men  are!  You 
want  all  the  splendours  of  the  Infinite  thrown  in 
with  the  price  of  admission  !  I  said  super-normal, 
because  we  know  of  nothing  greater  than  nature. 
Things  that  are  off  the  beaten  track  of  the 
normal,  across  the  frontiers,  some  call  super- 
natural ;  but  it  is  their  ignorance  of  the  vast, 
unexplored  territory  of  the  spirit  —  which  is  only 
the  material  masquerading  in  a  different  guise." 
29 


VISIONARIES 

"But  you  go  to  church,  to  a  Lenten  ser- 
vice —  ? "  It  was  as  if  he  had  known  her  for 
years,  and  their  unconventional  behaviour  never 
crossed  his  mind.  He  did  not  even  ask  him- 
self where  they  were  moving. 

"  I  go  to  church  to  rest  my  nerves  —  as  do 
many  other  people,"  she  replied;  "I  was  inter- 
ested in  the  parallel  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins 
and  the  Seven  Deadly  Arts." 

"  You  believe  the  arts  are  sinful  ? "  He  was 
curious. 

"I  don't  believe  in  sin  at  all.,  A  bad  con- 
science is  the  result  of  poor  digestion.  Sins  are 
created  so  that  we  pay  the  poll-tax  to  eternity  — 
pay  it  on  this  side  of  the  ferry.  Yet  the  arts 
may  become  dangerous  engines  of  destruction  if 
wrongfully  employed.  The  Fathers  of  the  early 
Church,  Ambrose  and  the  rest,  were  right  in 
viewing  them  suspiciously."  —  He  spoke  :  — 

"  The  arts  diabolic  !  Then  what  of  the  par- 
ticular form  of  wizardry  practised  so  success- 
fully by  the  celebrated  Mrs.  Whistler,  one  of 
whose  names  is,  according  to  the  Talmud,  that 
of  Adam's  first  wife  ? " 

"  What  do  you  know,  my  dear  young  man,  of 
diabolic  arts  ?  " 

"  Only  that  I  am  walking  with  you  near  the 
park  on  a  dark  night  of  April  and  I  never  saw 
you  before  a  half-hour  ago.  Isn't  that  magic  — 
white,  not  black  ?  " 

"  Pray  do  not  mock  magic,  either  white  or 
black.  Remember  the  fate  of  the  serpents 

30 


THE  EIGHTH   DEADLY   SIN 

manufactured  by  Pharaoh's  magicians.  They 
were,  need  I  tell  you,  speedily  devoured  by  the 
serpents  of  Moses  and  Aaron.  Both  parties  did 
not  play  fair  in  the  game.  If  it  was  black  magic 
to  transform  a  rod  into  a  snake  on  the  part  of 
Pharaoh's  conjurers,  was  it  any  less  reprehen- 
sible for  the  Hebrew  magicians  to  play  the  same 
trick  ?  It  was  prestidigitation  for  all  concerned 
—  only  the  side  of  the  children  of  Israel  was 
espoused  in  the  recital.  Therefore,  do  not  talk 
of  black  or  white  magic.  There  is  only  one 
true  magic.  And  it  is  not  slate- writing,  toe-joint 
snapping,  fortune-telling,  or  the  vending  of 
charms.  Magic,  too,  is  an  art  —  like  other 
arts.  This  is  forgotten  by  the  majority  of  its 
practitioners.  Hence  the  sordid  vulgarity  of  the 
average  mind-reader  and  humbugging  spiritualist 
of  the  dark-chamber  stance.  Besides,  the  study 
of  the  super-normal  mind  tells  us  of  the  mind  in 
health  —  nature  is  shy  in  revealing  her  secrets." 

They  passed  the  lake  and  were  turning  toward 
the  east  driveway.  Suddenly  she  stopped  and 
under  the  faint  starlight  regarded  her  com- 
panion earnestly.  He  had  not  been  without 
adventures  in  his  career — Paris  always  provided 
them  in  plenty ;  but  this  encounter  with  a 
homely  woman  piqued  him.  Her  eye  he  felt 
was  upon  him  and  her  voice  soothing. 

"Mr.  Baldur — listen!  Since  Milton  wrote 
his  great  poem  the  English-speaking  people  are 
all  devil-worshippers,  for  Satan  is  the  hero  of 
Paradise  Lost.  But  I  am  no  table-tipping  me- 

31 


VISIONARIES 

dium  eager  for  your  applause  or  your  money. 
I  don't  care  for  money.  I  think  you  know 
enough  of  me  through  the  newspapers  to  vouch- 
safe that.  You  are  rich,  and  it  is  your  chief 
misery.  Listen !  Whether  you  believe  it  or 
not,  you  are  very  unhappy.  Let  me  read  your 
horoscope.  Your  club  life  bores  you  ;  you  are 
tired  of  our  silly  theatres ;  no  longer  do  you  care 
for  Wagner's  music.  You  are  deracinated ;  you 
are  unpatriotic.  For  that  there  is  no  excuse. 
The  arts  are  for  you  deadly.  I  am  sure  you 
are  a  lover  of  literature.  Yet  what  a  curse  it 
has  been  for  you  !  When  you  see  one  of  your 
friends  drinking  wine,  you  call  him  a  fool  be- 
cause he  is  poisoning  himself.  But  you  —  you 
—  poison  your  spirit  with  the  honey  of  France, 
of  Scandinavia,  of  Russia.  As  for  the  society 
of  women  —  " 

"  The  Eternal  Womanly  !  "  he  sneered. 

"  The  Eternal  Simpleton,  you  mean.  In  that 
swamp  of  pettiness,  idiocy,  and  materialism,  a 
man  of  your  nature  could  not  long  abide.  Reli- 
gion —  it  has  not  yet  responded  to  your  need. 
And  without  faith  your  sins  lose  their  savour. 
The  arts  —  you  don't  know  them  all,  the  Seven 
Deadly  Arts  and  the  One  Beautiful  Art !  "  She 
paused.  Her  voice  had  been  as  the  sound  of 
delicate  flutes.  He  was  aflame. 

"  Is  there,  then,  an  eighth  art  ?  "  he  quickly 
asked. 

"  Would  you  know  it  if  you  saw  it  ? " 

"  Of  course.      Where  is  it,  what  is  it  ? " 
32 


THE  EIGHTH   DEADLY  SIN 

She  laughed  and  took  his  arm. 

"  Why  did  you  look  at  me  in  church  ?  " 

"  Because  —  it  was  mere  chance  —  no,  it  may 
have  been  the  odour  of  iris.  I  am  mad  over  per- 
fume. I  think  it  a  neglected  art,  degraded  to  the 
function  of  anointment.  I  have  often  dreamed 
of  an  art  by  which  a  dazzling  and  novel  syn- 
thesis of  fragrant  perfumes  would  be  invented 
by  some  genius,  some  latter-day  Rimmel  or 
Lubin  whom  we  could  hail  as  a  peer  of  Chopin 
or  Richard  Strauss  —  two  composers  who  have 
expressed  perfume  in  tone.  Roinard  in  his  Can- 
tiques  des  Cantiques  attempted  a  concordance 
of  tone,  light,  and  odours.  Yes  — it  was  the  iris 
that  attracted  me." 

"  But  I  have  no  iris  about  me.  I  have  none 
now,"  she  simply  replied.  He  faced  her. 

"  No  iris  ?     What  —  ?  " 

"  I  thong/it  iris,"  she  added  triumphantly,  as 
she  guided  him  into  one  of  the  side  streets  off 
Madison  Avenue.  He  was  astounded.  She  must 
be  a  hypnotist,  he  said  to  himself.  No  sugges- 
tion of  iris  clung  to  her  now.  And  he  remem- 
bered that  the  odour  disappeared  after  they  left 
the  church.  He  held  his  peace  until  they  arrived 
before  a  brown-stone  house  of  the  ordinary  kind 
with  an  English  basement.  She  took  a  key  from 
her  pocket  and,  going  down  several  steps,  beck- 
oned to  him.  Baldur  followed.  His  interest  in 
this  modern  Cassandra  and  her  bizarre  words 
was  too  great  for  him  to  hesitate  or  to  realize 
that  he  would  get  himself  into  some  dangerous 

33 


VISIONARIES 

scrape.  And  was  this  truly  the  Mrs.  Whistler 
whose  tricks  of  telepathy  and  other  extraor- 
dinary antics  had  puzzled  and  angered  the  wise 
men  of  two  continents  ?  He  did  not  have  much 
time  for  reflection.  A  grilled  door  opened,  and 
presently  he  was  in  a  room  furnished  very  much 
like  a  physician's  office.  Electric  bulbs,  an  open 
grate,  and  two  bookcases  gave  the  apartment  a 
familiar,  cheerful  appearance.  Baldur  sat  down 
on  a  low  chair,  and  Mrs.  Whistler  removed  her 
commonplace  headgear.  In  the  bright  light  she 
was  younger  than  he  had  imagined,  and  her  head 
a  beautifully  modelled  one  —  broad  brows,  very 
full  at  the  back,  and  the  mask  that  of  an  emo- 
tional actress.  Her  smoke-coloured  eyes  were 
most  remarkable  and  her  helmet  of  hair  blue 
black. 

"  And  now  that  you  are  my  guest  at  last,  Mr. 
Baldur,  let  me  apologize  for  the  exercise  of  my 
art  upon  your  responsive  nerves ; "  she  made 
this  witch-burning  admission  as  if  she  were 
accounting  for  the  absence  of  tea.  To  his  relief 
she  offered  him  nothing.  He  had  a  cigarette 
between  his  fingers,  but  he  did  not  care  to 
smoke.  She  continued :  — 

"  For  some  time  I  have  known  you  —  never 
mind  how !  For  some  time  I  have  wished  to 
meet  you.  I  am  not  an  impostor,  nor  do  I 
desire  to  pose  as  the  goddess  of  a  new  creed. 
But  you,  Irving  Baldur,  are  a  man  among  men 
who  will  appreciate  what  I  may  show  you.  You 
love,  you  understand,  perfumes.  You  have  even 
34 


THE  EIGHTH  DEADLY  SIN 

wished  for  a  new  art  —  don't  forget  that  there 
are  others  in  the  world  to  whom  the  seven  arts 
have  become  a  thrice-told  tale,  to  whom  the  arts 
have  become  too  useful.  All  great  art  should 
be  useless.  Yet  architecture  houses  us ;  sculp- 
ture flatters  us ;  painting  imitates  us ;  dancing  is 
pure  vanity ;  literature  and  the  drama,  mere 
vehicles  for  bread-earning;  while  music  —  music, 
the  most  useless  art  as  it  should  have  been  —  is 
in  the  hands  of  the  speculators.  Moreover 
music  is  too  sexual  —  it  reports  in  a  more  in- 
tense style  the  stories  of  our  loves.  Music  is 
the  memory  of  love.  What  Prophet  will  enter 
the  temple  of  the  modern  arts  and  drive  away 
with  his  divine  scourge  the  vile  money-changers 
who  fatten  therein  ?  "  Her  voice  was  shrill  as 
she  paced  the  room.  A  very  sibyl  this,  her 
crest  of  hair  agitated,  her  eyes  sparkling  with 
wrath.  He  missed  the  Cumaean  tripod. 

"  There  is  an  art,  Baldur,  an  art  that  was  one 
of  the  lost  arts  of  Babylon  until  now,  one  based, 
as  are  all  the  arts,  on  the  senses.  Perfume  — 
the  poor,  neglected  nose  must  have  its  revenge. 
It  has  outlived  the  other  senses  in  the  aesthetic 
field." 

"  What  of  the  palate  —  you  have  forgotten 
that.  Cookery,  too,  is  a  fine  art,"  he  ventured. 
His  smile  irritated  her. 

"  Yes,  Frenchmen  have  invented  symphonic 
sauces,  they  say.  But  again,  eating  is  a  useful 
art;  primarily  it  serves  to  nourish  the  body. 
When  man  was  wholly  wild  —  he  is  a  mere  bar- 

35 


VISIONARIES 

barian  to-day  —  his  sense  of  smell  guarded  him 
from  his  foes,  from  the  beasts,  from  a  thousand 
dangers.  Civilization,  with  its  charming  odours 
of  decay,  —  have  you  ever  ventured  to  savour 
New  York  ?  —  cast  into  abeyance  the  keenest  of 
all  the  senses.  Little  wonder,  then,  that  there 
was  no  art  of  perfume  like  the  arts  of  vision  and 
sound.  I  firmly  believe  the  Hindoos,  Egyptians, 
and  the  Chinese  knew  of  such  an  art.  How 
account  for  the  power  of  theocracies  ?  How 
else  credit  the  tales  of  the  saints  who  scattered 
perfumes  —  St.  Francis  de  Paul,  St.  Joseph  of 
Cupertino,  Venturini  of  Bergamo  ? " 

"  But,"  he  interrupted,  "  all  this  is  interesting, 
fascinating.  What  I  wish  to  know  is  what  form 
your  art  may  take.  How  marshal  odours  as  mel- 
odies in  a  symphony,  as  colours  on  a  canvas  ? " 
She  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  And  how  like  an  amateur  you  talk.  Melody ! 
When  harmony  is  infinitely  greater  in  music ! 
Form !  When  colour  is  infinitely  greater  than 
line !  The  most  profound  music  gives  only 
the  timbre  —  melodies  are  for  infantile  people 
without  imagination,  who  believe  in  patterns. 
Tone  is  the  quality  /  wish  on  a  canvas,  not 
anxious  drawing.  So  it  is  with  perfumes.  I  can 
blend  them  into  groups  of  lovely  harmony;  I 
can  give  you  single  notes  of  delicious  timbre  — 
in  a  word,  I  can  evoke  an  odour  symphony  which 
will  transport  you.  Memory  is  a  supreme  factor 
in  this  art.  Do  not  forget  how  the  vaguest  scent 
will  carry  you  back  to  your  youthful  dreamland. 

36 


THE  EIGHTH  DEADLY  SIN 

It  is  also  the  secret  of  spiritual  correspondences 
—  it  plays  the  great  r61e  of  bridging  space 
between  human  beings." 

"  I  sniff  the  air  promise-crammed,"  he  gayly 
misquoted.  "  But  when  will  you  rewrite  this 
Apocalypse  ?  and  how  am  I  to  know  whether  I 
shall  really  enjoy  this  feast  of  perfume,  if  you  can 
simulate  the  odour  of  iris  as  you  did  an  hour  ago  ? " 

"I  propose  to  show  you  an  artificial  paradise," 
she  firmly  asserted.  In  the  middle  of  the  room 
there  was  a  round  table,  the  top  inlaid  with 
agate.  On  it  a  large  blue  bowl  stood,  and  it 
was  empty.  Mrs.  Whistler  went  to  a  swinging 
cabinet  and  took  from  it  a  dozen  small  phials. 
"  Now  for  the  incantation,"  he  jokingly  said. 
In  her  matter-of-fact  manner  she  placed  the 
bottles  on  the  table,  and  uncorking  them,  she 
poured  them  slowly  into  the  bowl.  He  broke 
the  silence :  — 

"  Isn't  there  any  special  form  of  hair-raising 
invocation  that  goes  with  this  dangerous  opera- 
tion ? " 

"  Listen  to  this."  Her  eyes  swimming  with 
fire,  she  intoned  :  — 

As  I  came  through  the  desert  thus  it  was, 
As  I  came  through  the  desert :  Lo  you  there, 
That  hillock  burning  with  a  brazen  glare ; 
Those  myriad  dusky  flames  with  points  aglow 
Which  writhed  and  hissed  and  darted  to  and  fro ; 
A  Sabbath  of  the  serpents,  heaped  pell-mell 
For  Devil's  roll-call  and  some  fete  in  Hell : 
Yet  I  strode  on  austere  ; 
No  hope  could  have  no  fear. 

37 


VISIONARIES 

He  did  not  seem  to  hear.  From  out  the  bowl 
there  was  stealing  a  perfume  which  overmastered 
his  will  and  led  him  captive  to  the  lugubrious 
glade  of  the  Druids.  .  .  . 

Ill 
THE  CIRCUS  OF  CANDLES 

Comme  d'autres  esprits  voguent  sur  la  musique, 
Le  mien,  6  mon  amour  !  nage  sur  ton  parfum. 

—  BAUDELAIRE. 

He  was  not  dreaming,  for  he  saw  the  woman 
at  the  bowl,  saw  her  apartment.  But  the  interior 
of  his  brain  was  as  melancholy  as  a  lighted 
cathedral.  A  mortal  sadness  encompassed  him, 
and  his  nerves  were  like  taut  violin  strings.  It 
was  within  the  walls  of  his  skull,  that  he  saw  — 
his  mundane  surroundings  did  not  disturb  his 
visions.  And  the  waves  of  dolour  swept  over  his 
consciousness.  A  mingling  of  tuberoses,  nar- 
cissus, attar  of  roses,  and  ambergris  he  detected 
in  the  air — as  triste  as  a  morbid  nocturne  of 
Chopin.  This  was  followed  by  a  blending  of 
heliotrope,  moss-rose,  and  hyacinth,  together 
with  dainty  touches  of  geranium.  He  dreamed  of 
Beethoven's  manly  music  when  whiffs  of  apple- 
blossom,  white  rose,  cedar,  and  balsam  reached 
him.  Mozart  passed  roguishly  by  in  strains 
of  scarlet  pimpernel,  mignonette,  syringa,  and 
violets.  Then  the  sky  was  darkened  with  Schu- 
mann's perverse  harmonies  as  jasmine,  laven- 

38 


THE  EIGHTH   DEADLY  SIN 

der,  and  lime  were  sprayed  over  him.  Music, 
surely,  was  the  art  nearest  akin  to  odour.  A  su- 
perb and  subtle  chord  floated  about  him  ;  it  was 
composed  of  vervain,  opoponax,  and  frangipane. 
He  could  not  conceive  of  a  more  unearthly  triad. 
It  was  music  from  Parsifal.  Through  the  mists 
that  were  gathering  he  savoured  a  fulminating 
bouquet  of  patchouli,  musk,  bergamot,  and  he 
recalled  the  music  of  Mascagni.  Brahms  strode 
stolidly  on  in  company  with  new-mown  hay, 
cologne,  and  sweet  peas.  Liszt  was  interpreted 
as  ylang-ylang,  myrrh,  and  marechale  ;  Richard 
Strauss,  by  wistaria,  oil  of  cloves,  chypre,  poppy, 
and  crab-apple. 

Suddenly  there  developed  a  terrific  orches- 
tration of  chromatic  odours :  ambrosia,  cassia, 
orange,  peach-blossoms,  and  musk  of  Tonkin, 
magnolia,  eglantine,  hortensia,  lilac,  saffron,  be- 
gonia, peau  d'Espagne,  acacia,  carnation,  liban, 
fleur  de  Takeoka,  cypress,  oil  of  almonds,  ben- 
zoin, jacinth,  rue,  shrub,  olea,  clematis,  the 
hediosma  of  Jamaica,  olive,  vanilla,  cinnamon, 
petunia,  lotus,  frankincense,  sorrel,  neroli  from 
Japan,  jonquil,  verbena,  spikenard,  thyme,  hys- 
sop, and  decaying  orchids.  This  quintessential 
medley  was  as  the  sonorous  blasts  of  Berlioz,  re- 
pugnant and  exquisite ;  it  swayed  the  soul  of 
Baldur  as  the  wind  sways  the  flame.  There 
were  odours  like  winged  dreams ;  odours  as 
the  plucked  sounds  of  celestial  harps;  odours 
mystic  and  evil,  corrupt  and  opulent;  odours 
recalling  the  sweet,  dense  smell  of  chloro- 

39 


VISIONARIES 

form ;  odours  evil,  angelic,  and  anonymous. 
They  painted  —  painted  by  Satan!  —  upon  his 
cerebellum  more  than  music — music  that  merged 
into  picture ;  and  he  was  again  in  the  glade  of 
the  Druids.  The  huge  scent-symphony  dis- 
solved in  a  shower  of  black  roses  which  covered 
the  ground  ankle-deep.  An  antique  temple  of 
exotic  architecture  had  thrown  open  its  bronze 
doors,  and  out  there  surged  and  rustled  a  throng 
of  Bacchanalian  beings  who  sported  and  shouted 
around  a  terminal  god,  which,  with  smiling, 
ironic  lips,  accepted  their  delirious  homage. 
White  nymphs  and  brown  displayed  in  choric 
rhythms  the  dance  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins, 
and  their  goat-hoofed  mates  gave  vertiginous 
pursuit.  At  first  the  pagan  gayety  of  the  scene 
fired  the  fancy  of  the  solitary  spectator;  but 
soon  his  nerves,  disordered  by  the  rout  and 
fatigued%y  the  spoor  of  so  many  odours,  warned 
him  that  something  disquieting  was  at  hand. 
He  felt  a  nameless  horror  as  the  sinister  bit- 
ter odour  of  honeysuckle,  sandalwood,  and 
aloes  echoed  from  the  sacred  grove.  A  score 
of  seductive  young  witches  pranced  in  upon 
their  broomsticks,  and  without  dismounting  sur- 
rounded the  garden  god.  A  battalion  of  cen- 
taurs charged  upon  them.  The  vespertine  hour 
was  nigh,  and  over  this  iron  landscape  there 
floated  the  moon,  an  opal  button  in  the  sky. 
Then  to  his  shame  and  fear  he  saw  that  the 
Satyr  had  vanished  and  in  its  place  there  reared 
the  Black  Venus,  the  vile  shape  of  ancient 
40 


THE   EIGHTH  DEADLY  SIN 

Africa,  and  her  face  was  the  face  of  Lilith. 
The  screaming  lovely  witches  capered  in  fan- 
tastic spirals,  each  sporting  a  lighted  candle.  It 
was  the  diabolic  Circus  of  the  Candles,  the  in- 
fernal circus  of  the  Witches'  Sabbath.  Rooted 
to  the  ground,  Baldur  realized  with  fresh  amaze- 
ment and  vivid  pain  the  fair  beauty  of  Adam's 
prehistoric  wife,  her  luxurious  blond  hair,  her 
shapely  shoulders,  her  stature  of  a  goddess  —  he 
trembled,  for  she  had  turned  her  mordant  gaze 
in  his  direction.  And  he  strove  in  vain  to  bring 
back  the  comforting  vision  of  the  chamber.  She 
smiled,  and  the  odours  of  sandal,  coreopsis, 
and  aloes  encircled  his  soul  like  the  plaited 
strands  of  her  glorious  hair.  She  was  that  other 
Lilith,  the  only  offspring  of  the  old  Serpent.  On 
what  storied  fresco,  limned  by  what  worshipper 
of  Satan,  had  these  accursed  lineaments,  this 
lithe,  seductive  figure,  been  shown !  Names  of 
Satanic  painters,  from  Hell-fire  Breughel  to  Ar- 
nold Bocklin,  from  Felicien  Rops  to  Franz  Stuck, 
passed  through  the  halls  of  Irving  Baldur's 
memory. 

The  clangour  of  the  feast  was  become  mad- 
dening. He  heard  the  Venus  ballet  music  from 
Tannhauser  entwined  with  the  acridities  of 
aloes,  sandal,  and  honeysuckle.  Then  the 
aroma  of  pitch,  sulphur,  and  assafoetida  cruelly 
strangled  the  other  melodic  emanations.  Lilith, 
disdaining  the  shelter  of  her  nymphs  and  their 
clowneries,  stood  forth  in  all  the  hideous  majesty 
of  ^Enothea,  the  undulating  priestess  of  the 


VISIONARIES 

Abominable  Shape.  His  nerves  macerated  by 
this  sinful  apparition,  Baldur  struggled  to  resist 
her  mute  command.  What  was  it?  He  saw 
her  wish  streaming  from  her  eyes.  Despair ! 
Despair !  Despair !  There  is  no  hope  for  thee, 
wretch  sd  earthworm  !  No  abode  but  the  abys- 
mal House  of  Satan  !  Despair,  and  you  will  be 
welcomed !  By  a  violent  act  of  volition,  set  in 
motion  by  his  fingers  fumbling  a  small  gold 
cross  he  wore  as  a  watch-guard,  the  heady  fumes 
of  the  orgy  dissipated.  .  .  . 

He  was  sitting  facing  the  bowl,  and  over  it 
with  her  calm,  confidential  gaze  was  the  figure 
of  Lilith  Whistler. 

"  Have  I  proved  to  you  that  perfume  is  the 
art  of  arts  ? "  she  demanded.  He  rushed  from 
the  room  and  was  shaking  the  grilled  gate  in  the 
hallway  like  a  caged  maniac,  when  with  a  pity- 
ing smile  she  released  him.  He  reached  the 
street  at  a  bound.  .  .  . 

..."  the  evil  of  perfume,  I  repeat,  was  one 
against  which  the  venerable  Fathers  of  the 
Church  warned  the  faithful."  The  preacher's 
voice  had  sagged  to  a  monotone.  Baldur  lifted 
his  eyes  in  dismay.  Near  him  sat  the  same 
woman,  and  she  still  stared  at  him  as  if  to  rebuke 
him  for  his  abstraction.  About  her  hovered  the 
odour  of  iris.  Had  it  been  only  a  disturbing 
dream  ?  Intoxicated  by  his  escape  from  dam- 
nation, from  the  last  of  the  Deadly  Arts,  he 
bowed  his  head  in  grateful  prayer.  What  ec- 
42 


THE  EIGHTH   DEADLY  SIN 

stasy  to  be  once  more  in  the  arms  of  Mother 
Church !  There,  dipped  in  her  lustral  waters, 
and  there  alone  would  he  find  solace  for  his 
barren  heart,  pardon  for  his  insane  pride  of  in- 
tellect, and  protection  from  the  demons  that 
waylaid  his  sluggish  soul.  The  sermon  ended  as 
it  began :  — 

"  And  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins,  beloved  breth- 
ren, are :  Pride,  Covetousness,  Lust,  Anger. 
Gluttony,  Envy,  Sloth.  Oremus  !  " 

"  Amen,"  fervently  responded  Baldur  the 
Immoralist. 


Ill 

THE   PURSE   OF   AHOLIBAH 

Lo,  this  is  that  Aholibah 

Whose  name  was  blown  among  strange  seas.  .  .  . 

—  SWINBURNE. 

I 

THE  AVIARY 

WHEN  the  last  breakfast  guests  had  gone  the 
waiters  of  the  cafe  began  their  most  disagreeable 
daily  task.  All  the  silver  was  assembled  on 
one  of  the  long  tables  in  an  inner  room,  where, 
as  at  a  solemn  conclave,  the  servants  took  their 
seats,  and,  presided  over  by  the  major-domo  of 
the  establishment,  they  polished  the  knives  and 
forks,  spoons,  and  sugar-tongs,  filled  the  salt- 
cellars, replenished  the  pepper-boxes  and  other 
paraphernalia  of  the  dining  art.  The  gabble  in 
this  close  apartment  was  terrific.  Joseph,  the 
maitre  d'h6tel,  rapped  in  vain  a  dozen  times  for 
silence.  The  chef  poked  his  head  of  a  trucu- 
lent Gascon  through  the  door  and  indulged  in  a 
war  of  wit  with  a  long  fellow  from  Marseilles,  — 
called  the  "  mast "  because  he  was  very  tall  and 
thin,  and  had  cooked  in  the  galley  of  a  Mediter- 
ranean trading  brig.  From  time  to  time  one  of 


THE  PURSE  OF  AHOLIBAH 

the  piccolos,  a  fat  little  boy  from  the  South, 
carried  in  pitchers  of  flat  beer,  brewed  in  the 
suburbs.  As  it  was  a  hot  day,  he  was  kept 
busy.  The  waiters  had  gone  through  a  trying 
morning;  there  were  many  strangers  in  Paris. 
Outside,  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  despite  its 
shade  trees,  broiled  under  a  torrid  July  sun  that 
swam  in  a  mercilessly  blue  sky. 

The  majority  of  the  men  were  listening  to 
gossip  about  their  colleagues  in  the  Cafe  Car- 
dinal across  the  way.  Ambroise  alone  sat  apart 
and  patted  and  smoothed  the  salt  in  its  recep- 
•  tacles.  He  was  a  young  man  from  some  little 
town  in  Alsace,  a  furious  patriot,  and  the  butt 
of  his  companions  —  for  he  was  the  latest  comer 
in  the  Cafe  Riche.  Though  he  told  his  family 
name,  Nettier,  and  declared  that  his  father  and 
mother  were  of  French  blood,  he  was  called 
"  the  German."  He  was  good-looking,  very 
blond,  with  big,  innocent  blue  eyes ;  and  while 
he  was  never  molested  personally,  —  a  short, 
sharp  tussle  with  a  cook  had  proved  him  to  be  a 
man  of  muscle,  —  behind  his  back  his  walk  was 
mimicked,  his  precise  attitudes  were  openly 
bantered.  But  Ambroise  stood  this  torture 
gantlet  equably.  He  had  lived  long  enough 
among  Germans  to  copy  their  impassive  manner 
and,  coupled  with  a  natural  contempt  for  his 
fellow-monkeys  in  the  cage,  he  knew  that  per- 
haps in  a  day  a  new  man  would  receive  all  these 
unwelcome  attentions.  Moreover,  his  work, 
clear-cut,  unobtrusive,  and  capable,  pleased 
45 


VISIONARIES 

M.  Joseph.  And  when  the  patron  himself  dined 
at  the  cafe,  Ambroise  was  the  gar^on  selected 
to  wait  upon  him.  Hence  the  jealousy  of  his 
colleagues.  Couple  to  this  the  fact  that  he  was 
reported  miserly,  and  had  saved  a  large  sum  — 
which  were  all  sufficient  reasons  for  his  un- 
popularity. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  on  little  airs  began  to 
play  in  the  tree-tops ;  the  street  watering  carts 
had  been  assiduous,  and  before  the  terrace  water 
had  been  sprinkled  by  the  piccolos  so  effectively 
that  at  five  o'clock,  when  the  jaded  stock-brokers, 
journalists,  and  business  men  began  to  flock  in, 
each  for  his  aperitif,  the  cafe*  was  comparatively 
cool. 

A  few  women's  frocks  relieved  the  picture 
with  discreet  or  joyous  shades  of  white  and 
pink.  Ambroise  was  diligent  and  served  his 
regular  customers,  the  men  who  grumbled  if 
any  one  occupied  their  favourite  corners.  Ab- 
sinthe nicely  iced,  dominoes,  the  evening  papers 
— these  he  brought  as  he  welcomed  familiar  faces. 
But  his  thoughts  were  not  his  own,  and  his  pose 
when  not  in  service  was  listless,  even  bored. 
Would  she  return  that  evening  with  the  same 
crowd  — was  the  idea  that  had  taken  possession 
of  his  brain.  He  was  very  timid  in  the  presence 
of  women,  and  it  diverted  the  waiters  to  see 
him  blush  when  he  waited  upon  the  gorgeous 
birds  that  thronged  the  aviary  at  night,  making 
its  walls  echo  with  their  chattering,  quarrels, 
laughter.  This  provincial,  modest,  sensitive,  the 


THE  PURSE  OF  AHOLIBAH 

only  child  of  old-fashioned  parents,  was  stupe- 
fied and  shocked  in  the  presence  of  the  over- 
decorated  and  under-dressed  creatures,  daubed 
like  idols,  who  began  to  flock  in  the  cafe*,  with 
or  without  escorts,  after  eleven  o'clock  every 
night  in  the  year.  He  knew  them  all  by  name. 
He  knew  their  histories.  He  could  detect  at  a 
glance  whether  they  were  unhappy  or  merely 
depressed  by  the  rain,  whether  they  drank  cham- 
pagne from  happiness  or  desperation.  Notwith- 
standing his  dreamy  disposition  his  temperament 
was  ardent ;  his  was  an  unspoiled  soul ;  he  felt 
himself  a  sort  of  moral  barometer  for  the  mag- 
nificent and  feline  women  who  treated  him  as  if 
he  were  a  wooden  post  when  they  were  gossip- 
ing, harried  him  like  an  animal  when  they  were 
thirsty.  He  noted  that  they  were  always  thirsty. 
They  smoked  more  than  they  ate,  and  whispered 
more,  if  no  men  were  present,  than  they  smoked. 
But  then,  men  were  seldom  absent. 

The  night  previous,  Ambroise  recalled  the 
fact,  she  had  not  come  in  with  a  different  set. 
This  was  not  her  custom,  and  he  worried  over 
it.  Protected  by  princes  and  financiers,  she 
nevertheless  loved  her  liberty  so  much  that  one 
seldom  caught  her  in  the  same  company  twice 
in  succession.  For  this  singular  caprice  Aholi- 
bah,  of tener  called  the  Woman  from  Morocco,  — 
because  she  had  lived  in  Algiers,  —  was  the 
despair  of  her  circle.  Why,  argued  the  other 
birds,  why  fly  in  the  face  of  luck?  To  be 
sure,  she  was  still  young,  still  beautiful,  with 

47 


VISIONARIES 

that  sort  of  metallic  beauty  which  reminded 
Ambroise  of  some  priceless  bronze  blackened 
in  the  sun.  She  was  meagre,  diabolically 
graceful,  dark,  with  huge  saucer-like  eyes  that 
greedily  drank  in  her  surroundings.  But  her 
lashes  were  long,  and  she  could  veil  her  glance 
so  that  her  brilliant  face  looked  as  if  the  shut- 
ters had  been  closed  on  her  soul.  Across  her 
brows  a  bar  of  blue-black  marked  the  passage 
of  her  eyebrows — which  sable  line  was  matched 
by  her  abundant  hair,  worn  in  overshadowing 
clusters.  She  dressed  winter  and  summer  in 
scarlet,  and  her  stage  name  was  Aholibah  — 
bestowed  upon  her  by  some  fantastic  poet  who 
had  not  read  Ezekiel,  but  Swinburne.  It  was 
rumoured  by  her  intimates  that  her  real  name 
was  Clotilde  Durval,  that  her  mother  had  been  a 
seamstress.  .  .  . 

With  a  sinking  at  the  heart  Ambroise  saw 
her  enter  in  the  company  of  the  same  gentle- 
man she  had  brought  the  previous  evening. 
The  gargon  did  not  analyze  this  strange,  jealous 
feeling,  for  he  was  too  busily  employed  in  seat- 
ing his  guests  and  relieving  the  man  of  his  hat 
and  walking-stick.  An  insolent  chap  it  was, 
with  his  air  of  an  assured  conqueror  and  the 
easy  bearing  of  wealth.  There  was  little  dis- 
cussion as  to  the  order  —  a  certain  brand  of 
wine,  iced  beyond  recognition  for  any  normal 
palate,  was  always  served  to  Aholibah.  She 
loved  "needles  on  her  tongue,"  she  asseverated 
if  any  one  offered  her  weaker  stuff.  That  July 

48 


THE  PURSE  OF  AHOLIBAH 

night  she  looked  like  a  piratical  craft  that  had 
captured  a  sleek  merchantman  for  prize.  She 
was  all  smoothness ;  Ambroise  alone  detected 
the  retracted  claws  of  the  leopardess.  She 
blazed  in  the  electric  illumination,  and  her  large 
hat,  with  its  swelling  plumes,  threw  her  dusky 
features  into  shadow  —  her  eyes  seemed  far 
away  under  its  brim  and  glowed  with  unholy 
phosphorescence. 

While  he  arranged  the  details  of  the  silver 
wine-pail  in  the  other  room,  the  chef  asked  him 
if  the  Princess  Comet  had  arrived.  Ambroise 
almost  snarled  —  much  to  the  astonishment  of 
the  Gascon.  And  when  the  sommelier  at- 
tempted to  help  him  with  the  wine,  he  was 
elbowed  vigorously.  Ambroise  must  have 
been  drinking  too  much,  said  the  boys ;  Joseph 
rather  curiously  inspected  his  waiter  as  he  made 
his  accustomed  round  in  the  cafe.  But,  pale  as 
usual,  Ambroise  stood  near  his  table,  his  whole 
bearing  an  intent  and  thoroughly  professional 
one.  Joseph  was  satisfied  and  drove  the  chef 
back  to  the  kitchen. 

The  young  Alsatian  had  never  seen  Aholibah 
look  so  radiant.  She  was  in  high  spirits, 
and  her  pungent  talk  aroused  her  companion 
from  incipient  moroseness.  After  midnight  the 
party  grew  —  some  actresses  from  a  near-by 
theatre  came  in  with  their  male  friends,  and 
another  waiter  was  detailed  to  the  aid  of  Am- 
broise. But  he  stuck  to  the  first-comers  and 
served  so  much  wine  to  them  that  he  had  the 

49 


VISIONARIES 

satisfaction  of  seeing  Aholibah's  disagreeable 
protector  collapse.  She  hardly  noticed  it,  for 
she  was  talking  vivaciously  to  Madeleine  about 
the  premiere  of  Donnay's  comedy.  Thrice  Am- 
broise  sought  to  fill  her  glass ;  but  she  repulsed 
him.  He  was  sad.  Something  told  him  that 
Aholibah  was  farther  away  from  him  than  ever ; 
was  she  on  the  eve  of  forming  one  of  those  alli- 
ances that  would  rob  him  finally  of  her  presence? 
He  eyed  the  sleeping  man  —  surely  a  monster, 
a  million naire,  with  the  tastes  of  a  brute.  It  was 
all  very  trying  to  a  man  with  fine  nerves.  Sev- 
eral times  he  caught  Aholibah's  eye  upon  him, 
and  he  vaguely  wondered  if  he  had  omitted  any- 
thing —  or,  had  he  betrayed  his  feelings  ?  In 
Paris  the  waiter  who  shows  that  he  has  ears,  or 
eyes,  or  a  heart,  except  in  the  exercise  of  his 
functions,  is  lost.  He  is  bound  to  be  caught  and 
his  telltale  humanity  scourged  by  instant  dis- 
missal. So  when  those  fathomless  eyes  glittered 
in  his  direction,  his  knees  trembled  and  a  ball  of 
copper  invaded  his  throat.  He  could  barely 
drag  himself  to  her  side  and  ask  if  he  could  help 
her.  A  burst  of  impertinent  laughter  greeted 
him,  and  Madeleine  cried  :  — 

"Your  blond  gargon  seems  smitten,  Aholi- 
bah ! "  When  Ambroise  heard  this  awful 
phrase,  his  courage  quite  forsook  him,  and  he 
withdrew  into  the  obscurity  of .  the  hall.  So 
white  was  he  that  the  kindly  Joseph  asked 
solicitously  if  he  were  ill.  Ambroise  shook 
his  head.  The  heat,  he  feebly  explained,  had 


THE  PURSE  OF  AHOLIBAH 

made  his  head  giddy.  Better  drink  some  iced 
mineral  water,  was  suggested  —  the  other  man 
could  look  after  the  party !  But  Ambroise 
would  not  hear  of  this,  and  feeling  once  more 
the  beckoning  gaze  of  Aholibah  he  marched 
bravely  to  her  and  was  rewarded  by  a  tap  on 
the  wrist. 

"  There,  loiterer  !  Go  call  a  carriage.  The 
Prince  is  sleepy  —  dear  sheep  !  "  This  last 
was  a  tender  apostrophe  to  her  snoring  friend. 
Ambroise  helped  them  into  a  fiacre.  When  it 
drove  away  it  was  past  two  o'clock ;  the  house 
had  to  be  closed.  He  walked  slowly  home  to 
his  little  chamber  on  the  Rue  Puteaux,  just  off 
the  Batignolles.  But  he  could  not  sleep  until 
the  street-cleaners  began  the  work  of  another 
day.  .  .  .  The  Woman  from  Morocco  was 
the  scarlet  colour  of  his  troubled  dreams.  .  .  . 

August  had  almost  spent  itself,  and  Aholibah 
remained  in  the  arid  and  flavourless  town.  Her 
intimate  friends  had  weeks  earlier  gone  to 
Trouville,  to  Dinard,  to  Ostende,  to  Hombourg, 
even  as  far  as  Brighton ;  but  she  lingered,  seem- 
ingly from  perversity.  She  came  regularly  to 
the  cafe  about  eleven,  always  in  company  with 
her  Prince,  and  was  untiringly  served  by  Am- 
broise. He  was  rewarded  for  his  fidelity  with 
many  valuable  tips  and  latterly  with  gifts  —  for 
on  being  questioned  he  was  forced  to  admit  that 
gratuities  had  to  be  shared  with  the  other 
waiters.  He  was  so  amiable,  his  smile  so  win- 
Si 


VISIONARIES 

ning,  his  admiration  so  virginal,  that  Aholibah 
kept  him  near  her.  Her  Prince  drank,  sulked, 
or  grumbled  as  much  as  ever.  He  was  bored 
by  the  general  heat  and  the  dulness,  yet  made 
no  effort  to  escape  either.  One  night  they 
entered  after  twelve  o'clock.  Aholibah  was  in 
vicious  humour  and  snapped  at  her  gargon. 
Dog-like  he  waited  upon  her,  an  humble,  devoted 
helot.  He  overheard  her  say  to  her  companion 
that  she  must  have  lost  the  purse  at  the  Folies- 
Bergeres. 

"  Well,  go  to  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  to-morrow 
and  buy  another,"  was  the  reply. 

"  I  can't  replace  that  purse.  Besides,  it  was 
a  prized  gift  —  " 

"  From  your  sainted  mother  in  heaven !"  he 
sneered. 

Ambroise  saw  the  windows  of  her  eyes  close 
with  a  snap,  and  he  moved  away,  fearing  to  be 
present  in  the  surely  impending  quarrel.  He 
remembered  the  purse.  It  was  a  long  gold 
affair,  its  tiny  links  crusted  with  precious  pearls 
—  emeralds,  rubies,  diamonds.  And  the  top  he 
saw  before  him  with  ease,  for  its  pattern  was 
odd  —  a  snake's  head  with  jaws  distended  by  a 
large  amethyst.  Yes,  it  was  unique,  that  purse. 
And  its  value  must  have  been  bewildering  for 
any  but  the  idle  rich.  Ah !  how  he  hated  all 
this  money,  coming  from  nowhere,  pouring  in 
golden  streams  nowhere.  He  was  not  a  revolu- 
tionist, —  not  even  a  socialist,  —  but  there  were 
times  when  he  could  have  taken  the  neck  of  the 
52 


THE  PURSE  OF  AHOLIBAH 

Prince  between  his  strong  fingers  and  choked 
out  his  worthless  life.  These  attacks  of  envy 
were  short-lived  —  he  could  not  ascribe  them  to 
the  reading  of  the  little  hornet-like  anarchist 
sheet,  Plre  Peinard,  which  the  other  waiters 
lent  him ;  rather  was  it  an  excess  of  bile  pro- 
voked by  the  coveted  beauty  of  Aholibah. 

She  usurped  his  day  dreams,  his  night  reveries. 
He  never  took  a  step  without  keeping  her  mem- 
ory in  the  foreground.  When  he  closed  his 
eyes,  he  saw  scarlet.  When  he  opened  them, 
he  felt  her  magnetic  glance  upon  him,  though 
she  was  far  from  the  cafe.  His  one  idea 
was  to  speak  with  her.  His  maddest  wish 
assumed  the  shape  of  a  couple  walking  slowly 
arm  in  arm  through  the  Bois  —  she  was  the 
woman !  But  this  particular  vision  bordered 
on  delirium,  and  he  rarely  indulged  in  it.  ... 
He  stooped  to  look  under  the  chairs,  under  the 
table,  for  the  missing  treasure.  It  was  not  to 
be  seen.  Indolently  the  Prince  watched  him  as 
he  peered  all  over  the  cafe",  out  on  the  terrace. 
Aholibah  was  deeply  preoccupied.  She  sipped 
her  wine  without  pleasure.  Her  brows  were 
thunderous.  The  cart-wheel  hat  was  tipped 
low  over  them.  Several  times  Ambroise  sought 
her  glance.  He  could  have  sworn  that  she 
was  regarding  him  steadily.  So  painful  be- 
came the  intensity  of  her  eyes  that  he  with- 
drew in  confusion.  His  mind  was  made  up 
at  last. 

The  next  day  was  for  him  a  free  one.     He 

53 


VISIONARIES 

wandered  up  and  down  the  Rue  de  la  Paix 
staring  moodily  into  the  jewellers'  windows. 
That  night,  though  he  could  have  stayed  away 
from  the  cafe,  he  returned  at  ten  o'clock,  and 
luckily  enough  was  needed.  Joseph  greeted  him 
effusively.  The  "mast,"  the  thin  fellow  from 
Marseilles,  had  gone  home  with  a  splitting 
headache.  Would  Ambroise  stay  and  serve 
his  usual  table?  To  his  immense  astonish- 
ment and  joy  he  saw  her  enter  alone.  He 
tpok  her  wraps  and  seated  her  on  her  favourite 
divan  near  an  electric  fan.  Then  he  stared 
expectantly  at  the  door.  But  her  carriage  had 
driven  away.  Was  a  part  of  his  dream  coming 
true  ?  He  closed  his  eyes,  and  straightway  saw 
scarlet.  Then  he  went  for  wine,  without  taking 
her  order. 

Aholibah  was  preoccupied.  She  played  with 
the  bracelet  on  her  tawny  left  wrist.  Occasion- 
ally she  lifted  her  glass,  or  else  tossed  her  hair 
from  her  eyes.  If  any  stranger  ventured  near 
her,  she  began  to  hum  insolently,  or  spoke  ear- 
nestly with  Ambroise.  He  was  in  the  eleventh 
heaven  of  the  Persians.  Two  Ambroises  ap- 
peared to  be  in  him :  one  served  his  lady,  spoke 
with  her ;  the  other  from  afar  contemplated  with 
the  ecstasy  of  a  hasheesh  eater  his  counterfeit 
brother.  It  was  an  exquisite  sensation. 

"The  purse  —  has  Mademoiselle  —  "  He 
stammered. 

"  No,"  she  crisply  answered. 

"  Can  it  never  be  duplicated  ?     Perhaps  —  " 

54 


THE  PURSE  OF  AHOLIBAH 

"Never.  It  is  impossible.  It  was  made  in 
Africa." 

"But  — but  —  "he  persisted.  His  bearing 
was  so  peculiar  that  she  bent  upon  him  her 
dynamic  gaze. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  this  evening, 
Ambroise?  Have  you  come  into  a  successful 
lottery  ticket?  Or  — "  She  was  suspiciously 
looking  at  him.  "  Or  —  you  haven't  found  iff" 

He  nodded  his  head,  his  face  beatific  with 
joy.  He  resembled  the  youthful  Saint  George 
after  slaying  the  dragon.  She  was  startled. 
Her  eyes  positively  lightened;  he  listened  for 
the  attendant  peal  of  thunder. 

"  Speak  out,  you  booby.  Cornichon  !  Where 
did  you  find  it  ?  Let  me  see  it  —  at  once."  All 
fire  and  imperiousness,  she  held  out  grasping 
fingers.  He  shook.  And  then  carefully  he 
drew  from  the  inside  pocket  of  his  coat,  the 
purse.  She  snatched  it.  Yes  —  it  was  her 
purse.  And  yet  there  was  something  strange 
about  it.  Had  the  stones  been  tampered  with  ? 
She  examined  it  searchingly.  She  boasted  a 
jeweller's  knowledge  of  diamonds  and  rubies. 
One  of  the  stones  had  been  transposed,  that 
she  could  have  sworn.  And  how  different  the 
expression  of  the  serpent's  eyes  —  small  car- 
buncles. No  —  it  was  not  her  purse !  She 
looked  at  Ambroise.  He  was  paling  and  red- 
dening in  rapid  succession. 

"  It  is  not  my  purse !  How  did  this  come 
into  your  possession?  It  is  very  valuable, 

55 


VISIONARIES 

quite  as  valuable  as  mine.  But  the  eyes  of 
my  serpent  were  not  so  large  —  I  mean  the 
carbuncles.  Ambroise  —  look  at  me !  I  com- 
mand you !  Where  did  you  find  this  treasure 
—  cher  ami !  "  Her  seductive  voice  lingered 
on  the  last  words  as  if  they  were  a  morsel  of 
delicious  fruit.  He  leaned  heavily  on  the  table 
and  closed  his  eyes  to  shut  out  her  face  —  but 
he  only  saw  scarlet.  He  heard  scarlet. 

"I  —  I — bought  the  thing  because  —  you 
missed  the  other  —  "  He  could  get  no  further. 
She  smiled,  showing  her  celebrated  teeth. 

"  You  bought  the  thing  —  heinf  You  must 
be  a  prince  in  disguise  —  Ambroise !  And  I 
have  just  lost  my  Prince!  Perhaps  —  you 
thought  —  you  audacious  boy  —  " 

He  kept  his  eyes  closed.  She  was  in  a  corner 
of  the  room  —  quite  empty  —  the  other  wait- 
ers were  on  the  terrace.  She  weighed  his  ap- 
pearance and  smiled  mysteriously;  her  smile, 
her  glance,  and  her  scarlet  gowns  were  her  dra- 
matic assets.  Then  she  spoke  in  a  low  voice  — 
a  contralto  like  the  darker  tones  of  an  English 
horn :  — 

"I  fancy  I'll  keep  your  thoughtful  gift  — 
Ambroise.  And  now,  like  a  good  boy,  get  a 
fiacre  for  me ! "  She  went  away,  leaving  him 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  a  pillar  of 
burning  ice.  When  Joseph  spoke  to  him  he  did 
not  answer.  Then  they  took  him  by  the  arm, 
and  he  fell  over  in  a  seizure  which,  asserted  the 
practical  head  waiter,  was  caused  by  indigestion. 

56 


THE  PURSE  OF  AHOLIBAH 

II 
ACROSS  THE  STYX 

It  was  raining  on  the  Left  Bank.  The  chill 
of  a  November  afternoon  cut  its  way  through 
the  doors  of  the  Cafe"  La  Source  in  the  Boul* 
Mich'  and  made  shiver  the  groups  of  young 
medical  students  who  were  reading  or  playing 
dominos.  Ambroise  Nettier,  older,  thinner, 
paler,  waited  carefully  on  his  patrons.  He  had 
been  in  the  hospital  with  brain  fever,  and  after 
he  was  cured,  one  of  the  students  secured  him  a 
position  at  this  cafe*  in  the  Quartier.  He  had 
been  afraid  to  go  back  to  the  Cafe  Riche ;  Joseph 
had  harshly  discharged  him  on  that  terrible  night; 
alone,  without  a  home,  without  a  penny,  his 
savings  gone,  his  life  insurance  hypothecated,  — 
it  had  been  intended  for  the  benefit  of  his  parents, 
—  his  clothes,  his  very  trunk  gone,  and  plunged 
in  debt  to  his  fellow-waiters,  his  brain  had  suc- 
cumbed to  the  shock.  But  Ambroise  was  young 
and  strong ;  when  he  left  the  hospital  he  was 
relieved  to  find  that  he  no  longer  saw  scarlet. 
He  was  a  healed  man.  He  had  intended  to 
seek  for  a  place  at  the  Cafe  Cardinal,  but  it 
was  too  near  the  Cafe*  Riche  —  he  might  meet 
old  acquaintances,  might  be  asked  embarrassing 
questions.  So  he  gladly  accepted  his  present 
opportunity. 

The  dulness  of  the  day  waxed  with  its  wan- 
ing. It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  when  the  door 

57 


VISIONARIES 

slowly  opened  and  Aholibah  entered.  She  was 
alone.  Her  scarlet  plumage  was  wet,  and  she 
was  painted  like  a  Peruvian  war-god.  She  did 
not  appear  so  brilliant  a  bird  of  paradise  —  or 
elsewhere  —  as  at  the  aviary  across  the  water. 
Yet  her  gaze  was  as  forthright  as  ever.  She 
sat  on  a  divan  between  two  domino  parties,  and 
was  hardly  noticed  by  the  fanatics  of  that  bony 
diversion.  Recognizing  Ambroise,  she  made  a 
sign  to  him.  It  was  some  minutes  before  he 
could  reach  her  table;  he  had  other  orders. 
When  he  did,  she  said  she  wanted  some  absinthe. 
He  stared  at  her.  Yes,  absinthe  —  she  had  dis- 
carded iced  wines.  The  doctor  told  her  that 
cold  wine  was  dangerous.  He  still  stared. 
Then  she  held  up  the  purse.  It  was  a  mere 
shell;  all  the  stones  save  the  amethyst  in  the 
mouth  of  the  serpent  were  gone.  She  laughed 
shrilly.  He  went  for  the  drink.  She  lighted  a 
cigarette.  .  .  . 

Every  night  for  six  months  she  haunted  the 
cafe".  She  was  always  unattended,  always  in 
excellent  humour.  She  made  few  friends  among 
the  students.  Her  scarlet  dress  grew  shabbier. 
Her  gloves  and  boots  were  pitiful  to  Ambroise, 
who  recalled  her  former  splendours,  her  outra- 
geous extravagances.  Why  had  fortune  flouted 
her!  Why  had  she  let  it,  like  water,  escape 
through  her  jewelled,  indifferent  fingers!  He 
made  no  inquiries.  She  vouchsafed  none.  They 
were  now  on  a  different  footing.  Tantalizingly 
she  dangled  the  purse  under  his  nose  as  he 

58 


THE  PURSE  OF  AHOLIBAH 

brought  her  absinthe  —  always  this  opalescent 
absinthe.  She  drank  it  in  the  morning,  in  the 
afternoon,  at  night.  She  seldom  spoke  save  to 
Ambroise.  And  he  —  he  no  longer  saw  scarlet, 
for  the  glorious  tone  of  her  hat  and  gown  had 
vanished.  They  were  rusty  red,  a  carroty  tint. 
Her  face  was  like  the  mask  of  La  Buveuse 
d' Absinthe,  by  Felicien  Rops;  her  eyes,  black 
wells  of  regard;  her  hair  without  lustre,  and 
coarse  as  the  mane  of  a  horse.  Aholibah  no 
longer  manifested  interest  in  the  life  of  Paris. 
She  did  not  read  or  gossip.  But  she  still  had 
money  to  spend. 

The  night  he  quarrelled  with  his  new  patron, 
Ambroise  was  not  well.  All  the  day  his  head 
had  pained  him.  When  he  reached  La  Source, 
the  dame  at  the  cashier's  desk  told  him  that  he 
was  in  for  a  scolding.  He  shrugged  his  thin 
shoulders.  He  didn't  care  very  much.  Later 
the  prophesied  event  occurred.  He  had  been 
much  too  attentive  to  the  solitary  woman  who 
drank  absinthe  day  and  night.  The  patron 
did  not  propose  to  see  his  establishment, 
patronized  as  it  was  by  the  shining  lights  of 
medicine  — ! 

Ambroise  changed  his  clothes  and  went  away 
without  a  word.  He  was  weary  of  his  existence, 
and  a  friend  who  shared  his  wretched  room  in 
the  Rue  Mouffetard  had  apprised  him  of  a 
vacant  job  at  a  livelier,  resort,  the  Cafe  Va- 
chette,  commonly  known  as  the  Cafe  Rasta. 
There  he  would  earn  more  tips,  though  the 

59 


VISIONARIES 

work  would  be  more  fatiguing.  And  —  the  Mo- 
rocco Woman  might  not  follow  him.  He  hurried 
away. 

Ill 
AVERNUS 

She  sat  on  a  divan  in  the  corner  when  he 
entered  the  Vachette  for  the  first  time.  He  said 
nothing,  nor  did  he  experience  either  a  thrill  of 
pleasure  or  disgust.  The  other  waiters  assured 
him  that  she  was  an  old  customer,  sometimes 
better  dressed,  yet  never  without  money.  And 
she  was  liberal.  He  took  her  usual  order,  but 
did  not  speak  to  her,  though  she  played  with 
the  purse  as  if  to  tempt  him  —  it  had  become 
for  him  a  symbol  of  their  lives.  A  quick  glance 
assured  him  that  the  amethyst  had  disappeared. 
She  was  literally  drinking  his  gift  away  in 
absinthe.  The  spring  passed,  and  Ambroise 
did  not  regain  his  former  health.  His  limbs 
were  leaden,  his  head  always  heavy.  The  alert 
waiter  was  transformed.  He  took  his  orders 
soberly,  executed  them  soberly,  —  he  was  still  a 
good  routinier ;  but  his  early  enthusiasm  was 
absent.  Something  had  gone  from  him  that 
night;  as  she  went  to  her  carriage  with  her 
scornful,  snapping,  petulant  Ca  !  —  he  felt  that 
his  life  was  over.  Aholibah  watched  like  a  cat 
every  night ;  he  was  not  on  for  day  duty.  She 
never  came  to  the  Rasta  before  dark.  The  story 
of  her  infatuation  for  the  well-bred,  melancholy 
60 


THE   PURSE  OF  AHOLIBAH 

gargon  was  noised  about ;  but  it  did  not  endanger 
his  position,  as  at  La  Source.  He  paid  little 
attention  to  the  jesting,  and  was  scrupulously 
exact  in  his  work.  But  the  sense  of  his  double 
personality  began  to  worry  him  again.  He  did 
not  see  scarlet  as  of  old ;  he  noticed  when  his 
eyes  were  closed  that  the  apparition  of  a  second 
Ambroise  swam  into  the  field  of  his  vision.  And 
he  was  positively  certain  that  this  spectre  of 
himself  saw  scarlet  —  the  attitude  of  his  double 
assured  him  of  the  fact.  Simple-minded,  igno- 
rant of  cerebral  disorders,  loyal,  and  laborious, 
Ambroise  could  not  speak  of  these  disquieting 
things  —  indeed,  he  only  worked  the  more.  .  .  . 
At  last,  one  night  in  late  summer,  she  did  not 
appear.  It  was  after  a  day  when  she  had  sung 
more  insolently  than  ever,  drunk  more  than  her 
accustomed  allowance,  and  had  shown  Ambroise 
the  purse  —  the  sockets  of  the  serpent's  eyes 
untenanted  by  the  beautiful  carbuncles.  Apa- 
thetic as  he  had  become,  he  was  surprised  at  her 
absence.  It  was  either  caprice  or  serious  ill- 
ness. She  had  dwindled  to  a  skeleton,  with 
a  maleficent  smile.  Her  teeth  were  yellow,  her 
hands  become  claws,  the  scarlet  of  her  clothes 
a  drab  hue,  the  plumes  on  her  hat  gone. 
Ambroise  wondered.  About  midnight  a  mean- 
looking  fellow  entered  and  asked  for  him.  A 
lady,  a  very  ill  lady,  was  in  a  coupe"  at  the 
door.  He  hurried  out.  It  was  Aholibah.  Her 
eyes  were  glazed  and  her  lips  black  and  cracked. 
She  tried  to  croon,  in  a  hoarse  voice  :  — 
61 


VISIONARIES 

"  I  am  the  Woman  of  Morocco ! "  But  her 
head  fell  on  the  window-sill  of  the  carriage. 
Ambroise  lifted  the  weary  head  on  his  shoulder. 
His  eyes  were  so  dry  that  they  seemed  thirsty. 
The  old  glamour  gripped  him.  The  cabman 
held  the  reins  and  waited ;  it  was  an  every-night 
occurrence  for  him.  The  starlight  could  not 
penetrate  to  the  Boulevard  through  the  harsh 
electric  glare ;  and  the  whirring  of  wheels  and 
laughter  of  the  cafe's  guests  entered  the  soul 
of  Ambroise  like  steel  nails.  She  opened  her 
eyes. 

"  I  am  that  Aholibah  ...  a  witness  through 
waste  Asia  .  .  .  that  the  strong  men  and  the 
Captains  knew  .  .  ."  This  line  of  Swinburne's 
was  pronounced  in  the  purest  English.  Am- 
broise did  not  understand.  Then  followed  some 
rapidly  uttered  jargon  that  might  have  been 
Moorish.  He  soothed  her,  and  softly  passed  his 
hand  over  her  rough  and  dishevelled  hair.  His 
heart  was  bursting.  She  was  after  all  his  Aholi- 
bah, his  first  love.  A  crowd  gathered.  He 
asked  for  a  doctor.  A  dozen  students  ran  in 
a  dozen  different  directions.  The  tired  horse 
stamped  its  feet  impatiently,  and  once  it  whin- 
nied. The  coachman  lighted  his  pipe  and 
watched  his  dying  fare.  Some  wag  sang  a 
drunken  lyric,  and  Ambroise  repeated  at  in- 
tervals :  — 

"  Please  not  so  close,  Messieurs.  She  needs 
air."  Then  she  moved  her  head  and  mur- 
mured : 

62 


THE  PURSE  OF  AHOLIBAH 

"  Where's  —  my  Prince  ?  My  —  Prince  Am- 
broise  —  I  have  something  —  "  Her  head  fell 
back  on  his  shoulder  with  a  rigid  jerk.  In  her 
clenched  fingers  he  recognized  his  purse  — 
smudged,  torn,  the  serpent  mouth  gaping,  the 
eyes  empty.  .  .  .  And  for  the  last  time  Am- 
broise  saw  scarlet  —  saw  scarlet  double.  His 
two  personalities  had  separated,  never  to  merge 
again. 


IV 

REBELS   OF  THE   MOON 

"  On  my  honour,  friend,"  Zarathustra  answered,  "  what 
thou  speakest  of  doth  not  exist  :  there  is  no  devil  nor  hell. 
Thy  soul  will  be  dead  even  sooner  than  thy  body  :  hence- 
forth fear  naught." 

THE  moon,  a  spiritual  gray  wafer,  fainted  in 
the  red  wind  of  a  summer  morning  as  the  two 
men  leaped  a  ditch  soft  with  mud.  The  wall 
was  not  high,  the  escape  an  easy  one.  Crouch- 
ing, their  clothes  the  colour  of  clay,  they  trod 
cautiously  the  trench,  until  opposite  a  wood 
whose  trees  blackened  the  slow  dawn.  Then, 
without  a  word,  they  ran  across  the  road,  and, 
in  a  few  minutes,  were  lost  in  the  thick  under- 
brush of  the  little  forest.  It  was  past  four 
o'clock  and  the  dawn  began  to  trill  over  the 
rim  of  night;  the  east  burst  into  stinging  sun 
rays,  while  the  moving  air  awoke  the  birds  and 
sent  scurrying  around  the  smooth  green  park  a 
cloud  of  golden  powdery  dust.  .  .  . 

Arved  and  Quell  stood  in  a  secret  glade  and 
looked  at  each  other  solemnly  —  but  only  for 
a  moment.  Laughter,  unrestrained  laughter, 
frightened  the  squirrels  and  warned  them  that 
they  were  still  in  danger. 


REBELS  OF  THE  MOON 

"  Well,  we've  escaped  this  time,"  said  the  poet. 

w  Yes ;  but  how  long  ?  "  was  the  sardonic  re- 
joinder of  the  painter. 

"See  here,  Quell,  you're  a  pessimist.  You 
are  never  satisfied ;  which,  I  take  it,  is  a  neat 
definition  of  pessimism." 

"  I  don't  propose  to  chop  logic  so  early  in  the 
morning,"  was  the  surly  reply.  "  I'm  cold  and 
nervous.  Say,  did  you  lift  anything  before  we 
got  away  ?  "  Arved  smiled  the  significant  smile 
of  a  drinking  man. 

"  Yes,  I  did.  I  waited  until  Doc  McKracken 
left  his  office,  and  then  I  sneaked  this"  The 
severe  lines  in  Quell's  face  began  to  swim  to- 
gether. He  reached  out  his  hand,  took  the 
flask,  and  then  threw  back  his  head.  Arved 
watched  him  with  patient  resignation. 

"  Hold  on  there !  Leave  a  dozen  drops  for  a 
poor  maker  of  rhymes,"  he  chuckled,  and  soon 
was  himself  gurgling  the  liquor. 

They  arose,  and  after  despairing  glances  at 
their  bespattered  garments,  trudged  on.  In  an 
hour,  the  pair  had  reached  the  edge  of  the  for- 
est, and,  as  the  sun  sat  high  and  warm,  a  rest 
was  agreed  upon.  But  this  time  they  did  not 
easily  find  a  hiding-place.  Fearing  to  venture 
nearer  the  turnpike,  hearing  human  sounds,  they 
finally  retired  from  the  clearing,  and  behind  a 
moss-etched  rock  discovered  a  cool  resting-place 
on  the  leafy  floor. 

At  full  length,  hands  under  heads,  brains 
mellowed  by  brandy,  the  men  summed  up  the 
65 


VISIONARIES 

situation.  Arved  was  the  first  to  speak.  He 
was  tall,  blond,  heavy  of  figure,  and  his  beard 
hung  upon  his  chest.  His  dissatisfied  eyes  were 
cynical  when  he  rallied  his  companion.  A  man 
of  brains  this,  but  careless  as  the  grass. 

"  Quell,  let  us  think  this  thing  out  carefully. 
It  is  nearly  six  o'clock.  At  six  o'clock  the  cells 
will  be  unlocked,  and  then,  —  well,  McKracken 
will  damn  our  bones,  for  he  gets  a  fat  board  fee 
from  my  people,  and  the  table  is  not  so  cursed 
good  at  the  Hermitage  that  he  misses  a  margin 
of  profit!  What  will  he  do?  Set  the  dogs 
after  us  ?  No,  he  daren't ;  we're  not  convicts 
—  we're  only  mad  folk."  He  smiled  good- 
humouredly,  though  his  white  brow  was  dented 
as  if  by  harsh  thoughts. 

Quell's  little  bloodshot  eyes  stared  up  into  a 
narrow  channel  of  foliage,  at  the  end  of  which 
was  a  splash  of  blue  sky.  He  was  mean-appear- 
ing, with  a  horselike  head,  his  mustache  twisted 
into  a  savage  curl.  His  forehead  was  abnormal 
in  breadth  and  the  irritable  flashes  of  fire  in 
his  eyes  told  the  story  of  a  restless  soul.  The 
nostrils  expanded  as  he  spoke :  — 

"  We're  only  mad  folk,  as  you  say ;  neverthe- 
less, the  Lord  High  Keeper  will  send  his  police 
patrol  wagon  after  us  in  a  jiffy.  He  went  to  bed 
dead  full  last  night,  so  his  humour  won't  be 
any  too  sweet  when  he  hears  that  several  of  his 
boarders  have  vanished.  He'll  miss  you  more 
than  me;  I'm  not  at  the  first  table  with  you 
swells." 

66 


REBELS  OF  THE  MOON 

Quell  ended  his  speech  with  so  disagreeable 
an  inflection  that  Arved  was  astonished.  He 
looked  around  and  spat  at  a  beetle. 

"  What's  wrong  with  you,  my  hearty  ?  I  be- 
lieve you  miss  your  soft  iron  couch.  Or  did  you 
leave  it  this  morning  left  foot  foremost  ?  Any- 
how, Quell,  don't  get  on  your  ear.  We'll  push 
to  town  as  soon  as  it's  twilight,  and  I  know  a 
little  crib  near  the  river  where  we  can  have  all 
we  want  to  eat  and  drink.  Do  you  hear  — 
drink ! "  Quell  made  no  answer.  The  other 
continued :  — 

"  Besides,  I  don't  see  why  you've  turned 
sulky  simply  because  your  family  sent  you  up 
to  the  Hermitage.  It's  no  disgrace.  In  fact, 
it  steadies  the  nerves,  and  you  can  get  plenty 
of  booze." 

"  If  you  have  the  price,"  snapped  his  friend. 

"  Money  or  no  money,  McKracken's  asylum 
—  no,  it's  bad  taste  to  call  it  that ;  his  retreat, 
ah,  there's  the  word!  —  is  not  so  awful.  I've 
a  theory  that  our  keepers  are  crazy  as  loons; 
though  you  can't  blame  them,  watching  us,  as 
they  must,  from  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  until 
midnight.  Say,  why  were  you  put  away  ? " 

"  Crazy,  like  yourself,  I  suppose."  Quell 
grinned. 

"  And  now  we're  cured.  We  cured  ourselves 
by  flight.  How  can  they  call  us  crazy  when  we 
planned  the  job  so  neatly  ? " 

Arved  began  to  be  interested  in  the  sound  of 
his  own  voice.  He  searched  his  pockets  and 
67 


VISIONARIES 

after  some  vain  fumbling  found  a  half  package 
of  cigarettes. 

"  Take  some  and  be  happy,  my  boy.  They 
are  boon-sticks  indeed."  Quell  suddenly  arose. 

"  Arved,  what  were  you  sent  up  for,  may  I 
ask  ? " 

The  poet  stretched  his  big  legs,  rolled  over 
on  his  back  again,  and  scratching  his  tangled 
beard,  smoked  the  cigarette  he  had  just  lighted. 
In  the  hot  hum  of  the  woods  there  was  heard 
the  occasional  dropping  of  pine  cones  as  the 
wind  fanned  lazy  music  from  the  leaves.  They 
could  not  see  the  sun ;  its  power  was  felt.  Per- 
spiration beaded  their  shiny  faces  and  presently 
they  removed  collars  and  coats,  sitting  at  ease 
in  shirt-sleeves.  .  .  .  Arved's  tongue  began  to 
speed  :  — 

"Though  I've  only  known  you  twenty-four 
hours,  my  son,  I  feel  impelled  to  tell  you  the 
history  of  my  happy  life  —  for  happiness  has 
its  histories,  no  matter  what  the  poets  say.  But 
the  day  is  hot,  our  time  limited.  Wait  until  we 
are  recaptured,  then  I'll  spin  you  a  yarn." 

"  You  expect  to  get  caught  for  sure  ? " 

"  I  do.  So  do  you.  No  need  to  argue  — 
your  face  tells  me  that.  But  we'll  have  the 
time  of  our  life  before  they  gather  us  in.  Any- 
how, we'll  want  to  go  back.  The  whole  world 
is  crazy,  but  ashamed  to  acknowledge  it.  We 
are  not.  Pascal  said  men  are  so  mad  that  he 
who  would  not  be  is  a  madman  of  a  new  kind. 
To  escape  ineffable  dulness  is  the  privilege  of 
68 


REBELS  OF  THE  MOON 

the  lunatic ;  the  lunatic,  who  is  the  true  aristo- 
crat of  nature  —  the  unique  man  in  a  tower  of 
ivory,  the  elect,  who,  in  samite  robes,  traverses 
moody  gardens.  Really,  I  shudder  at  the  idea 
of  ever  living  again  in  yonder  stewpot  of  human- 
ity, with  all  its  bad  smells.  To  struggle  with 
the  fools  for  their  idiotic  prizes  is  beyond  me. 
The  lunatic  asylum  —  " 

"  Can't  you  find  some  other  word  ? "  asked 
Quell,  dryly. 

"  —  is  the  best  modern  equivalent  for  the  tub 
of  Diogenes  —  he  who  was  the  first  Solitary,  the 
first  Individualist.  To  dream  one's  dreams,  to 
be  alone  —  " 

"  How  about  McKracken  and  the  keepers  ?  " 

"  From  the  volatile  intellects  of  madmen  are 
fashioned  the  truths  of  humanity.  Mental  re- 
pose is  death.  All  our  modern  theocrats,  poli- 
ticians,—  whose  minds  are  sewers  for  the  people, 
—  and  lawyers  are  corpses,  their  brains  dead 
from  feeding  on  dead  ideas.  Motion  is  life  — 
mad  minds  are  always  in  motion." 

"Let  up  there!  You  talk  like  the  doctor 
chaps  over  at  the  crazy  crib,"  interrupted  Quell. 

"  Ah,  if  we  could  only  arrange  our  dreams  in 
chapters  —  as  in  a  novel.  Sometimes  Nature 
does  it  for  us.  There  is  really  a  beginning, 
a  development,  a  denouement.  But,  for  the 
most  of  us,  life  is  a  crooked  road  with  weeds  so 
high  that  we  can't  see  the  turn  of  the  path. 
Now,  my  case  —  I'm  telling  you  my  story  after 
all  —  my  case  is  a  typical  one  of  the  artistic 


VISIONARIES 

sort.  I  wrote  prose,  verse,  and  dissipated  with 
true  poetic  regularity.  It  was  after  reading 
"Nietzsche  that  I  decided  to  quit  my  stupid,  sin- 
ful ways.  Yes,  you  may  smile !  It  was  Nietz- 
sche who  converted  me.  I  left  the  old  crowd, 
the  old  life  in  Paris,  went  to  Brittany,  studied 
new  rhythms,  new  forms,  studied  the  moon; 
and  then  people  began  to  touch  their  foreheads 
knowingly.  I  was  suspected  simply  because  I 
did  not  want  to  turn  out  sweet  sonnets  about 
the  pretty  stars.  Why,  man,  I  have  a  star  in 
my  stomach !  Every  poet  has.  We  are  of  the 
same  stuff  as  the  stars.  It  was  Marlowe  who 
said,  'A  sound  magician  is  a  mighty  god.'  He 
was  wrong.  Only  the  mentally  unsound  are 
really  wise.  This  the  ancients  knew.  Even  if 
Gerard  de  Nerval  did  walk  the  boulevards  troll- 
ing a  lobster  by  a  blue  ribbon  —  that  is  no 
reason  for  judging  him  crazy.  As  he  truly  said, 
'  Lobsters  neither  bark  nor  bite ;  and  they  know 
the  secrets  of  the  sea ! '  His  dreams  simply 
overflowed  into  his  daily  existence.  He  had  the 
courage  of  his  dreams.  Do  you  remember  his 
declaring  that  the  sun  never  appears  in  dreams  ? 
How  true !  But  the  moon  does,  *  sexton  of  the 
planets,'  as  the  crazy  poet  Lenau  called  it  —  the 
moon  which  is  the  patron  sky-saint  of  men  with 
brains.  Ah,  brains !  What  unhappiness  they 
cause  in  this  brainless  world,  a  world  rotten 
with  hypocrisy.  A  poet  polishes  words  until 
they  glitter  with  beauty,  charging  them  with 
fulminating  meaning  —  straightway  he  is  called 
70 


REBELS  OF  THE  MOON 

mad  by  men  who  sweat  and  toil  on  the  stock 
exchange.  Have  you  ever,  my  dear  Quell, 
watched  those  little,  grotesque  brokers  on  a 
busy  day?  No?  Well,  you  will  say  that  no 
lunatic  grimacing  beneath  the  horns  of  the  moon 
ever  made  such  ludicrous,  such  useless,  gestures. 
And  for  what  ?  Money !  Money  to  spend  as 
idiotically  as  it  is  garnered.  The  world  is  crazy, 
I  tell  you,  crazy,  to  toil  as  it  does.  How  much 
cleverer  are  the  apes  who  won't  talk,  because, 
if  they  did,  they  would  be  forced  to  abandon 
their  lovely  free  life,  put  on  ugly  garments,  and 
work  for  a  living.  These  animals,  for  which  we 
have  such  contempt,  are  freer  than  men ;  they 
are  the  Supermen  of  Nietzsche  —  Nietzsche 
whose  brain  mirrored  both  a  Prometheus  and 
a  Napoleon."  Quell  listened  to  this  speech  with 
indifference.  Arved  continued :  — 

"  Nor  was  Nietzsche  insane  when  he  went  to 
the  asylum.  His  sanity  was  blinding  in  its 
brilliancy ;  he  voluntarily  renounced  the  world 
of  foolish  faces  and  had  himself  locked  away 
where  he  would  not  hear  its  foolish  clacking. 
O  Silence!  gift  of  the  gods,  deified  by  Car- 
lyle  in  many  volumes  and  praised  by  me  in 
many  silly  words !  My  good  fellow,  society, 
which  is  always  hypocritical,  has  to  build  lunatic 
asylums  in  self-defence.  These  polite  jails  keep 
the  world  in  countenance ;  they  give  it  a  stand- 
ard. If  you  are  behind  the  bars  —  " 

"  Speak  for  yourself,"  growled  Quell. 

"Then  the  world  knows  that  you  are  crazy 


VISIONARIES 

and  that  it  is  not.  There  is  no  other  way  of 
telling  the  difference.  So  a  conspiracy  of  fools, 
lawyers,  and  doctors  is  formed.  If  you  do  not 
live  the  life  of  the  stupid  :  cheat,  lie,  steal,  smirk, 
eat,  dance,  and  drink  —  then  you  are  crazy  ! 
That  fact  agreed  upon,  the  hypocrites,  who  are 
quite  mad,  but  cunning  enough  to  dissemble, 
lock  behind  bolted  doors  those  free  souls,  the 
poets,  painters,  musicians  —  artistic  folk  in  gen- 
eral. They  brand  our  gifts  with  fancy  scientific 
names,  such  as  Megalomania,  Paranoia,  Folie 
des  grandeurs.  Show  me  a  genius  and  I'll  show 
you  a  madman  —  according  to  the  world's 
notion." 

"  There  you  go  again,"  cried  Quell,  arising  to 
his  knees.  "  Genius,  /  believe,  is  a  disease  of 
the  nerves ;  and  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I 
consider  poets  and  musicians  quite  crazy." 

Arved's  eyes  were  blazing  blue  signals. 

"  But,  my  dear  Quell,  are  not  all  men  mad  at 
some  time  or  another?  Madly  in  love,  re- 
ligiously mad,  patriotically  insane,  and  idiotic 
on  the  subject  of  clothes,  blood,  social  prece- 
dence, handsome  persons,  money  ?  And  is  it  not 
a  sign  of  insanity  when  one  man  claims  sanity 
for  his  own  particular  art?  Painting,  I  admit, 
is  —  " 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  know  about  paint- 
ing ? "  Quell  roughly  interposed;  "you  are  a  poet 
and,  pretending  to  love  all  creation,  —  altruism, 
I  think  your  sentimental  philosophers  call  it,  — 
have  the  conceit  to  believe  you  bear  a  star  in 
72 


REBELS  OF  THE  MOON 

your  stomach  when  it  is  only  a  craving  for  rum. 
I've  been  through  the  game." 

He  began  to  pace  the  sward,  chewing  a 
blade  of  grass.  He  spoke  in  hurried,  staccato 
phrases :  — 

"  Why  was  I  put  away  ?  Listen :  I  tried  to 
paint  the  sun, — for  I  hate  your  moon  and  its 
misty  madness.  To  put  this  glorious  furnace 
on  canvas  is,  as  you  will  acknowledge,  the  task 
of  a  god.  It  never  came  to  me  in  my  dreams, 
so  I  wooed  it  by  day.  Above  all,  I  wished  to 
express  truth ;  the  sun  is  black.  Think  of  an 
ebon  sun  fringed  with  its  dazzling  photosphere ! 
I  tried  to  paint  sun-rhythms,  the  rhythms  of  the 
quivering  sky,  which  is  never  still  even  when  it 
seems  most  immobile ;  I  tried  to  paint  the 
rhythms  of  the  atmosphere,  shivering  as  it  is 
with  chords  of  sunlight  and  chromatic  scales  as 
yet  unpainted.  Like  Oswald  Alving  in  Ibsen's 
Ghosts,  my  last  cry  will  be  for  'the  sun.'  How 
did  my  friends  act  ?  What  did  the  critics  say  ? 
A  black  sun  was  too  much  for  the  world,  though 
astronomers  have  proven  my  theory  correct. 
The  doctors  swore  I  drank  too  much  absinthe ; 
the  critics  said  a  species  of  optical  madness  had 
set  in  ;  that  I  saw  only  the  peripheral  tints  —  I 
was  yellow  and  blue  crazy.  Perhaps  I  was, 
perhaps  I  am.  So  is  the  fellow  crazy  who  in- 
vented wireless  telegraphy ;  so  is  the  man  off 
his  base  who  invents  a  folding  bird  cage.  We 
are  all  crazy,  and  the  craziest  gang  are  our 
doctors  at  the  Hermitage."  He  jerked  his 

73 


VISIONARIES 

thumb  over  his  shoulder.  Arved  rolled  his 
handsome  head  acquiescingly. 

"  You  poets  and  musicians  are  trying  to  com- 
pass the  inane.  You  are  trying  to  duplicate 
your  dreams,  dreams  without  a  hint  of  the  sun. 
The  painter  at  least  copies  or  interprets  real  life  ; 
while  the  composer  dips  his  finger  in  the  air, 
making  endless  sound-scrolls  —  noises  with  long 
tails  and  whirligig  decorations  like  foolish  fire- 
works—  though  I  think  the  art  of  the  future 
will  be  pyrotechnics.  Mad,  mad,  I  tell  you! 
But  whether  mad  or  not  matters  little  in  our 
land  of  freedom,  where  all  men  are  born  unequal, 
where  only  the  artists  are  sad.  They  are  use- 
less beings,  openly  derided,  and  when  one  is 
caught  napping,  doing  something  that  offends 
church  or  State  or  society,  he  is  imprisoned. 
Mad,  you  know !  No  wonder  anarchy  is  thriv- 
ing, no  wonder  every  true  artist  is  an  anarch, 
unavowed  perhaps,  yet  an  anarch,  and  an 
atheist." 

"  Not  so  fast !  "  interrupted  Arved.  "  I'm  an 
anarchist,  but  I  don't  believe  in  blowing  up  in- 
nocent policemen.  Neither  do  you,  Quell.  You 
wouldn't  hurt  a  bartender !  Give  an  anarchist 
plenty  to  drink,  and  he  sheds  his  anarchy  like  a 
shirt.  There  are,  I  have  noticed,  three  stages 
in  the  career  of  a  revolutionist :  destruction,  in- 
struction, construction.  He  begins  the  first  at 
twenty,  at  forty  he  is  teaching,  at  sixty  he  be- 
lieves in  society  —  especially  if  he  has  money  in 
the  bank."  Quell  regarded  the  speaker  sourly. 
74 


REBELS   OF  THE  MOON 

"You  are  a  wonder,  Arved.  You  fly  off  on  a 
wild  tangent  stimulated  by  the  mere  sound  of 
a  word.  Who  said  anything  about  dynamite- 
anarchy  ?  There's  another  sort  that  men  of 
brains  —  madmen  if  you  will  —  believe  and  in- 
directly teach.  Emerson  was  one,  though  he 
hardly  knew  it.  Thoreau  realized  it  for  him, 
however.  Don't  you  remember  his  stern  re- 
buke when  Emerson  visited  him  in  Concord 
jail :  '  Henry,  why  art  thou  here  ? '  meekly  in- 
quired the  mystic  man.  '  Ralph,  why  art  thou 
not  here  ? '  was  the  counter-question.  Thoreau 
had  brave  nerves.  To  live  in  peace  in  this  ma- 
licious swamp  of  a  world  we  must  all  wear  iron 
masks  until  we  are  carted  off  to  the  domino- 
park  ;  pious  people  call  it  the  cemetery.  Now, 
I'm  going  to  sleep.  I'm  tired  of  all  this  jabber- 
ing. We  are  crazy  for  sure,  or  else  we  wouldn't 
talk  so  much." 

Arved  grumbled,  "Yes,  I've  noticed  that 
when  a  man  in  an  asylum  begins  to  suspect 
his  keepers  of  madness  he's  mighty  near  lunacy 
himself." 

"  You  have  crazy  blue  eyes,  Arved !  Where's 
that  flask  —  I'm  dry  again  !  Let's  sleep." 

They  drained  the  bottle  and  were  soon  doz- 
ing, while  about  them  buzzed  the  noon  in  all  its 
torrid  splendour. 

When  they  awoke  it  was  solid  night.  They 
yawned  and  damned  the  darkness,  which  smelt 
like  stale  india-rubber,  so  Quell  said.  They 
cursed  life  and  the  bitter  taste  in  their  mouths. 

75 


VISIONARIES 

Quell  spoke  of  his  thirst  in  words  that  startled 
the  easy-going  Arved,  who  confessed  that  if  he 
could  rid  himself  of  the  wool  in  his  throat, 
he  would  be  comparatively  happy.  Then  they 
stumbled  along,  bumping  into  trees,  feeling  with 
outstretched  arms,  but  finding  nothing  to  guide 
them  save  the  few  thin  stars  in  the  torn  foliage 
overhead.  Without  watches,  they  could  catch 
no  idea  of  the  hour.  The  night  was  far  spent, 
declared  Arved;  he  discovered  that  he  was 
very  hungry.  Suddenly,  from  the  top  of  a 
steep,  slippery  bank  they  pitched  forward  into 
the  highroad. 

Arved  put  out  his  hand,  searching  for  his  com- 
rade. "  Quell,  Quell !  "  he  whispered.  Quell 
rose  darkly  beside  him,  a  narrow  lath  of  human- 
ity. Locking  arms,  both  walked  briskly  until, 
turning  a  sharp,  short  corner,  they  beheld,  all 
smiling  in  the  night,  a  summer  garden,  well 
lighted  and  full  of  gay  people,  chattering, 
singing,  eating,  drinking  —  happy!  The  two 
fugitives  were  stunned  for  a  moment  by  such 
a  joyful  prospect.  Tears  came  slowly  to  their 
eyes,  yet  they  never  relaxed  their  gait.  Arriv- 
ing at  an  outlying  table  and  seats,  they  bethought 
themselves  of  their  appearance,  of  money,  of 
other  disquieting  prospects;  but,  sitting  down, 
they  boldly  called  a  waiter. 

Luckily  it  was  a  country  girl  who  timidly  took 

their  order  for  beer  and  sandwiches.     And  they 

drank  eagerly,  gobbling  the  food  as  soon  as  it 

came,   ordering  more  so  noisily  that  they  at- 

76 


REBELS  OF  THE  MOON 

tracted  attention.  The  beer  made  them  brave. 
As  they  poured  down  glass  after  glass,  reckless 
of  the  reckoning,  insolent  to  the  servant,  they 
began  wrangling  over  the  subject  that  had  pos- 
sessed their  waking  hours. 

"  Look  here,  Quell  ! "  Arved  exclaimed 
crustily,  "  you  said  I  had  crazy  blue  eyes. 
What  about  your  own  red  ones  ?  Crazy !  Why, 
they  glow  now  like  a  rat's.  Poets  may  be 
music-mad,  drunk  with  tone  — 

"  And  other  things,"  sneered  the  painter. 

" — but  at  least  their  work  is  great  when  it 
endures ;  it  does  not  fade  away  on  rotten  canvas." 

"  Now,  I  know  you  ought  to  be  in  the  Brain- 
College,  Arved,  where  your  friends  could  take 
the  little  green  car  that  goes  by  the  grounds 
and  see  you  on  Sunday  afternoons  if  weather 
permits." 

His  accent  seemed  deliberately  insulting  to 
Arved,  who,  however,  let  it  pass  because  of 
their  mutual  plight.  If  they  fell  to  fighting, 
detection  would  ensue.  So  he  answered  in 
placatory  phrases :  — 

"  Yes,  my  friend,  we  both  belong  to  the  same 
establishment,  for  we  are  men  of  genius.  As 
the  cat  said  to  Alice,  '  We  must  be  mad  or  else 
we  shouldn't  be  here.'  I  started  to  tell  you  why 
my  people  thought  I  had  better  take  the  cure. 
I  loved  the  moon  too  much  and  loathed  sun- 
light. If  I  had  never  tried  to  write  lunar 
poetry  —  the  tone  quality  of  music  combined 
with  the  pictorial  evocation  of  painting  —  I 

77 


VISIONARIES 

might  be  in  the  bosom  of  my  family  now  in- 
stead of  —  " 

"  Drinking  with  a  crazy  painter,  eh  ?  "  Quell 
was  very  angry.  He  shouted  for  drinks  so 
rapidly  that  he  alarmed  the  more  prudent 
Arved ;  and  as  they  were  now  the  last  guests, 
the  head  waiter  approached  and  curtly  bade 
them  leave.  In  an  instant  he  was  dripping  with 
beer  thrown  at  him  —  glass  and  all  —  by  the 
irate  Quell.  A  whistle  sounded,  two  other 
waiters  rushed  out,  and  the  battle  began. 
Arved,  aroused  by  the  sight  of  his  friend  on 
the  ground  with  three  men  hammering  his 
head,  gave  a  roar  like  the  trumpeting  of  an 
elephant.  A  chair  was  smashed  over  a  table, 
and,  swinging  one-half  of  it,  he  made  a  for- 
midable onslaught.  Two  of  the  waiters  were 
knocked  senseless  and  the  leader's  nose  and 
teeth  crushed  in  by  the  rude  cudgel.  The 
morose  moon  started  up,  a  tragic  hieroglyph 
in  the  passionless  sky.  Quell,  seeing  its  hated 
disk,  howled,  his  face  aflame  with  exalta- 
tion. Then  he  leaped  like  a  hoarsely  panting 
animal  upon  the  poet ;  a  moment  and  they 
were  in  the  grass  clawing  each  other.  And 
the  moon  foamed  down  upon  them  its  magnetic 
beams  until  darkness,  caused  by  a  coarse 
blanket,  enveloped,  pinioned,  smothered  them. 
When  the  light  shone  again,  they-  were  sitting 
in  a  wagon,  their  legs  tightly  bound.  .  .  . 

They  began  singing.  The  attendant  inter- 
rupted :  — 


REBELS  OF  THE  MOON 

"Will  you  fellows  keep  quiet  ?  How  can  a 
man  drive  straight,  listening  to  your  cackle  ? " 

Arved  touched  his  temple  significantly  and 
nudged  Quell. 

"  Another  one  of  us.  Another  rebel  of  the 
moon ! " 

"  Shut  up  or  I'll  gag  you  both  ! "  imperi- 
ously commanded  the  doctor,  as  the  wheels 
of  the  ambulance  cut  the  pebbly  road.  They 
were  entering  the  asylum;  now  they  passed 
the  porter's  lodge.  In  the  jewelled  light  of  a 
senescent  moon,  his  wife  and  little  daughter 
gazed  at  them  curiously,  without  semblance 
of  pity  or  fear.  Then,  as  if  shot  from  the 
same  vocal  spring-board,  the  voices  of  poet 
and  painter  merged  into  crazy  rhythmatic  chant- 
ing:— 

"  Rebels  of  the  moon,  rebels  of  the  moon  ! 
We  are,  we  are,  the  rebels  of  the  moon  !  " 

And  the  great  gates  closed  behind  them 
with  a  brazen  clangour  —  metal  gates  of  the 
moon-rebels. 


79 


V 

THE  SPIRAL   ROAD 

There  can  be  nothing  good,  as  we  know  it,  nor  any 
thing  evil,  as  we  know  it,  in  the  eye  of  the  Omnipresent 
and  the  Omniscient.  —  Oriental  Proverb. 

I 

THE  STRAND   OF   DREAMS 

"I  MUST  see  him  if  only  for  a  minute.  I 
can't  go  back  to  the  city  after  coming  so  far. 
Please  — "  but  the  girl's  face  disappeared  and 
the  rickety  door,  which  had  been  opened  on  a 
chain,  was  slammed  after  this  imperative  speech, 
and  Gerald  Shannon  found  himself  staring  exas- 
peratedly  at  its  rusty  exterior.  To  have  trav- 
elled on  foot  such  a  distance  only  to  be  turned 
away  like  a  beggar  enraged  him.  Nor  was  the 
prospect  of  returning  over  the  path  which  had 
brought  him  to  Karospina's  house  a  cheering 
one.  He  turned  and  saw  that  a  low,  creeping 
mist  had  obliterated  every  vestige  of  the  trail 
across  the  swamp  lands.  There  was  no  sun, 
and  the  twilight  of  a  slow  yellow  day  in  late 
September  would  soon,  in  complicity  with  the 
fog,  leave  him  totally  adrift  on  this  remote 
strand  —  he  could  hear  the  curving  fall  and  hiss 
So 


THE  SPIRAL  ROAD 

of  the  breakers,  the  monotonous  rumour  of  the 
sea.  So  he  was  determined  to  face  Karospina, 
even  if  he  had  to  force  his  way  into  the  house. 

Two  hours  earlier,  at  the  little  railway  sta- 
tion, they  had  informed  him  that  the  road  was 
easy  flatland  for  the  greater  part  of  the  way. 
He  had  offered  money  for  a  horse  or  even  a 
wheel;  but  these  were  luxuries  on  this  bleak, 
poverty-ridden  coast.  As  there  was  no  alterna- 
tive, Gerald  had  walked  rapidly  since  three 
o'clock.  And  he  had  not  been  told  the  truth 
about  the  road ;  where  the  oozing,  green,  un- 
wholesome waters  were  not  he  stepped,  some- 
times sinking  over  his  ankles  in  the  soft  mud. 
Not  a  sign  of  humanity  served  him  for  comfort 
or  compass.  He  had  been  assured  that  if  he 
kept  his  back  to  the  sun  he  would  reach  his  des- 
tination. And  he  did,  but  not  without  many 
misgivings.  It  was  the  vision  of  a  squat  tower- 
like  building,  almost  hemmed  in  by  a  monster 
gas  reservoir,  fantastic  wooden  galleries,  and 
the  gigantic  silhouettes  of  strange  machinery, 
that  relieved  his  mind.  But  this  house  and  its 
surroundings  soon  repelled  him.  His  reception 
was  the  final  disenchantment. 

He  played  a  lively  tattoo  with  his  blackthorn 
stick  on  the  panels  of  the  door.  For  five  min- 
utes this  continued,  interspersed  with  occasional 
loud  calls  for  Karospina.  At  last  the  siege  was 
raised.  After  preliminary  unboltings,  unbar- 
rings,  and  the  rattling  of  the  chain,  Gerald  saw 
before  him  a  middle-aged  man  with  a  smooth 
81 


VISIONARIES 

face  and  closely  shaven  head,  who  quietly  asked 
his  name  and  business. 

"  I  have  a  letter  for  you,  Mr.  Karospina  —  if 
you  are  that  gentleman  —  and  as  I  have  put  my- 
self to  much  trouble  in  getting  to  you,  I  think  I 
deserve  a  little  consideration." 

"  A  letter,  my  worthy  sir !  And  for  me  ? 
Who  told  you  to  come  here  ?  How  do  you 
know  my  name  ? "  This  angered  the  young  man. 

"It  is  from  Prince  K.  The  Prince.  Now 
are  you  satisfied  ? "  he  added,  as  his  questioner 
turned  red  and  then  paled  as  if  the  news  were 
too  startling  for  his  nerves. 

"  Come  in,  come  in !  "  he  cried.  "  Mila,  Mila, 
here  is  a  guest.  Fetch  tea  to  the  laboratory." 
He  literally  dragged  Shannon  within  doors  and 
led  him  across  a  stone  corridor  to  a  large  room, 
but  not  before  he  had  bolted  and  barred  the  en- 
trance to  his  mysterious  fortress.  Seeing  the 
other's  look  of  quiet  amusement,  he  laughed 
himself :  — 

"  Wolves,  my  dear  sir,  wolves,  human  wolves, 
prowl  on  the  beach  at  night,  and  while  I  have 
no  treasures,  it  is  well  to  be  on  the  safe  side. 
Mila,  Mila,  the  tea,  the  tea."  There  was  a  pas- 
sionate intensity  in  his  utterance  that  attracted 
Gerald  from  his  survey  of  the  chamber.  He 
saw  that  in  the  light  Karospina  was  a  much 
older  man  than  he  had  at  first  supposed.  But 
the  broad  shoulders,  the  thick  chest,  and  short, 
powerful  figure  and  bullet  head  belied  his  years. 
Incredulously  his  visitor  asked  himself  if  this 
82 


THE  SPIRAL  ROAD 

were  the  wonderful,  the  celebrated  Karospina, 
chemist,  revolutionary,  mystic,  nobleman,  and 
millionnaire.  A  Russian,  he  knew  that  —  yet  he 
looked  more  like  the  monk  one  sees  depicted  on 
the  canvases  of  the  early  Flemish  painters.  His 
high,  wide  brow  and  deep-set,  dark  eyes  pro- 
claimed the  thinker;  and  because  of  his  phy- 
sique, he  might  have  posed  as  a  prize-fighter. 

He  took  the  letter  and  read  it  as  the  door 
opened  and  the  girl  came  in  with  the  tea.  She 
wore  her  hair  braided  in  two  big  plaits  which 
hung  between  her  shoulders,  and  her  bold,  care- 
less glance  from  eyes  sea-blue  made  the  Irish- 
man forget  his  host  and  the  rigours  of  the 
afternoon.  A  Russian  beauty,  with  bare,  plump 
arms,  and  dressed  in  peasant  costume  ;  but — a 
patrician !  Her  fair  skin  and  blond  hair  filled 
him  with  admiration.  What  the  devil !  —  he 
thought,  and  came  near  saying  it  aloud. 

"  My  niece,  Princess  Mila  Georgovics,  Mr. 
Shannon."  Gerald  acknowledged  the  introduc- 
tion with  his  deepest  bow.  He  was  dazzled. 
He  had  come  to  this  dreary  place  to  talk 
politics.  But  now  this  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. And  he  began  explaining  to  the  Princess ; 
Mila  he  had  fancied  was  some  slattern  wait- 
ing on  the  old  fanatic  of  a  prince.  He  told 
Mila  this  in  a  few  words,  and  soon  the  pair 
laughed  and  chatted.  In  the  meantime  Karo- 
spina, who  had  finished  the  letter,  began  to  pace 
the  apartment.  Apparently  he  had  forgotten 
the  others. 

83 


VISIONARIES 


\ 


"Tea,  tea,  where's  the  tea?"  he  presently 
shouted.  As  they  drank,  he  said :  "  The  prince 
asks  an  impossibility,  Mr.  Shannon.  Say  to 
him,  no,  simply  no ;  he  will  understand,  and  so 
will  you,  I  hope.  I'm  done  with  all  militant 
movements.  I'm  converted  to  the  peace  party. 
What's  the  use  of  liberty  to  people  who  won't 
know  what  to  do  with  it  when  they  get  it? 
Tolstoy  is  right.  Let  the  peasant  be  shown  how 
to  save  his  soul  —  that  and  a  little  to  eat  and 
drink  and  a  roof  are  all  he  needs  in  this  life." 

Gerald  was  startled.  He  had  expected  to  find 
an  "  advanced  "  leader  of  the  Bakounine  type. 
Instead,  a  man  of  the  "  vegetarian  "  order,  —  as 
he  had  heard  them  called,  —  who  talked  religion 
instead  of  dynamite ;  —  and  after  all  the  bother 
of  bringing  the  letter  down  to  this  remote 
country !  Decidedly  the  princess  was  more 
enjoyable  than  a  reformed  anarchist.  She  was 
gazing  at  him  seriously  now,  her  society  manner 
gone.  Her  nose,  rather  large  for  the  harmony 
of  her  face,  palpitated  with  eagerness.  Evidently, 
thought  Gerald,  the  young  lady  is  the  real  rev- 
olutionist in  this  curious  household.  He  also 
ventured  to  say  so  to  her,  but  she  did  not  meet 
his  smiling  declaration.  Her  uncle,  irritated  by 
his  interrupted  discourse,  exclaimed  :  — 

"  Never  mind  what  the  Princess  Mila  thinks, 
Mr.  Shannon.  Women  change  their  minds. 
The  chief  matter  just  now  is  that  you  cannot  go 
away  to-night.  You  would  lose  your  way,  per- 
haps be  drowned.  Can  you  sleep  on  a  hard 


THE  SPIRAL  ROAD 

bed  ? "  He  was  assured  by  Gerald  that,  if  he 
had  been  turned  away,  he  would  have  slept  in 
an  outhouse,  even  under  one  of  those  wind- 
mills he  saw  in  such  number  on  the  strand. 
Karospina  smiled. 

"Hardly  there  —  that  is,  if  you  expected  to 
awaken."  Then  he  left  the  room,  saying  that 
some  one  must  see  to  the  supper.  His  niece 
burst  into  laughter.  Gerald  joined  in. 

"  He's  always  like  that,  fussy,  nervous,  but 
with  a  heart  of  gold,  Mr.  —  Mr.  Shannon. 
Thank  you.  It's  an  Irish  name,  is  it  not  ?  And 
you  look  like  an  Irishman ;  a  soldier,  too,  I 
fancy ! " 

Gerald  blushed.  "  A  soldier  in  the  cause  of 
humanity,"  he  answered,  "  but  no  longer  a  hire- 
ling in  the  uniform  of  kings."  He  felt  so 
foolish  after  this  brave  bit  of  rhetoric  that  he 
kept  his  eyes  on  the  floor.  In  an  instant  she 
was  at  his  side. 

"Give  me  your  hand  —  comrade!"  she  said, 
with  a  peculiar  intonation.  "  Oh  !  if  you  only 
knew  how  I  longed  to  meet  the  right  men. 
Uncle  is  a  convert  —  no,  hardly  a  backslider ; 
but  he  swears  by  the  regenerating  process  in- 
stead of  violence.  Formerly  the  cleverest  living 
chemist,  he  now  —  oh  !  I  shame  to  say  it  —  he 
now  indulges  in  firework  displays  instead  of 
manufacturing  bombs  with  which  to  execute 
tyrants."  She  slowly  dropped  his  hand  and  her 
eyes  wore  a  clairvoyant  expression.  He  was 
astounded. 

85 


VISIONARIES 

"Fireworks!  Doesn't  the  prince  hold  by 
his  old  faith  —  he,  a  pupil  of  Bakounine,  Net- 
schajew,  and  Kropotkin  ? "  Just  then  the  prince 
came  in,  bearing  a  tray.  He  seemed  happy. 

"  Here,  sit  down,  dear  sir,  and  partake  of  a 
few  things.  We  live  so  far  from  civilization 
that  we  seldom  get  a  good  chicken.  But  eggs 
I  can  offer  you,  eggs  and  ham,  cooked  by  me 
on  an  electric  machine." 

"  You  have  no  servants? "  Gerald  ventured. 

"Not  one.  I  can't  trust  them  near  my  — 
toys.  The  princess  plays  Chopin  mazourkas 
after  she  makes  the  beds  in  the  morning,  and  in 
the  afternoon  she  is  my  assistant  in  the  labora- 
tory." Again  the  young  man  looked  about  him. 
If  the  room  was  a  laboratory,  where  were  the 
retorts,  the  oven,  the  phials,  the  jars,  the  usual 
apparatus  of  a  modern  chemist?  He  saw 
nothing,  except  an  old-fashioned  electric  fan  and 
a  few  dusty  books.  The  fireworks  —  were  those 
overgrown  wheels  and  gaunt  windmills  and  gas- 
house  the  secret  of  the  prince's  self-banishment 
to  this  dreary  coast  ?  What  dreams  did  he  seek 
to  incarnate  on  this  strand,  in  this  queer  tower, 
locked  away  from  the  world  with  a  charming 
princess  —  a  fairy  princess  whose  heart  beat 
with  love  for  the  oppressed,  in  whose  hand  he 
might  some  time  see  the  blazing  torch  of  free- 
dom ?  He,  himself,  was  enveloped  by  the  hyp- 
notism of  the  place.  Mila  spoke  :  — 

"  I  fear  I  must  leave  you.  I  am  studying  to- 
night and  —  I  go  early  to  rest.  Pray  dine  as 
86 


THE  SPIRAL  ROAD 

well  as  you  can,  with  such  a  chef."  She  smiled 
mischievously  at  her  uncle,  courtesied  in  peas- 
ant fashion  to  the  bewildered  Gerald,  who  put 
out  his  hand,  fain  to  touch  hers,  and  disap- 
peared. The  prince  gazed  inquiringly  at  the 
young  man. 

"  Revolutionists  soon  become  friends,  do  they 
not  ?  The  Princess  Mila  is  part  Russian,  part 
Roumanian,  —  my  sister  married  a  Roumanian, 
—  hence  her  implacable  political  attitude.  I 
can't  lead  her  back  to  civilized  thinking.  She 
sees  war  in  the  moon,  sun,  and  stars.  And  I  —  I 
have  forsworn  violence.  Ah  !  if  I  could  only 
make  the  prince  change.  Bakounine's  death 
had  no  effect ;  Netschajew's  fate  did  not  move 
him;  nor  was  Illowski's  mad  attempt  to  burn 
down  Paris  with  his  incendiary  symphony  an 
example  to  our  prince  that  those  who  take  up 
the  sword  perish  by  the  sword.  Ah,  Tolstoy, 
dear  Leon  Nikolaievitch,  you  showed  me  the 
true  way  to  master  the  world  by  love  and  not 
by  hate !  Until  I  read  —  but  there,  it's  late. 
Come  with  me  to  your  room.  You  may  smoke 
and  sleep  when  you  will.  In  the  morning  I 
will  show  you  my  —  toys."  They  shook  hands 
formally  and  parted. 

His  bed  was  hard,  and  his  room  cheerless, 
but  anything,  even  a  haymow,  rather  than 
walking  back  to  the  station.  After  he  went  to 
his  bed,  he  rehearsed  the  day's  doings  from  the 
three  hours'  ride  in  the  train  to  the  tower.  How 
weary  he  was !  Hark  —  some  one  played  the 


VISIONARIES 

piano  !  A  Chopin  mazourka !  It  was  the  prin- 
cess. Mila !  How  lovely  her  touch  !  .  .  .  Mila  ! 
What  a  lovely  name  !  A  sleeping  princess.  A 
prince  with  such  a  sleepy  head.  How  the  girl 
could  play  .  .  .  along  the  spiral  road  he  saw 
the  music  glow  in  enigmatic  figures  of  fire.  .  .  . 

II 
THE   PANACEA  OF   CORUSCATION 

He  seemed  to  be  uttering  her  name  when  he 
awoke.  It  was  daylight ;  the  sun  poured  its  rays 
over  his  face,  and  he  asked  himself  how  he  could 
have  fallen  asleep  leaving  the  lamp  burning  on 
the  table  near  his  bed.  He  must  have  slept 
long,  for  he  felt  rested,  cheerful  —  happy.  As 
he  dressed  he  speculated  whether  it  was  the 
sunshine,  or  the  prospect  of  going  back  to  life, 
or  —  or —  Did  he  wish  to  return  so  soon? 
He  wondered  what  Mila  was  doing.  Then  he 
went  into  the  stone  corridor  and  coughed  as  a 
hint  that  he  was  up.  Not  a  sound  but  the  per- 
sistent fall  at  a  distance  of  some  heavy  metallic 
substance.  It  must  be  Karospina  in  his  work- 
shop, at  his  rockets,  pinwheels,  torpedoes,  and 
firecrackers.  What  a  singular  change  in  a 
bloodthirsty  revolutionist.  And  how  childish ! 
Had  he  squandered  his  millions  on  futile  experi- 
mentings  ?  What  his  object,  what  his  scheme,  for 
the  amelioration  of  mankind's  woes  ?  Gerald's 
stomach  warned  him  that  coffee  and  rolls  were 
88 


THE  SPIRAL  ROAD 

far  dearer  to  him  than  the  downfall  of  tyranny's 
bastions,  and  impatiently  he  began  whistling. 
The  rhythmic  thud  never  ceased.  He  noticed 
an  open  door  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  he 
went  out,  his  long  legs  carrying  him  about  the 
yard,  toward  the  beach.  The  air  was  glorious, 
a  soft  breeze  blowing  landward  from  the  ocean. 
He  almost  forgot  his  hunger  in  the  face  of  such 
a  spectacle.  The  breakers  were  racing  in,  and 
after  crumbling,  they  scudded,  a  film  of  green, 
crested  by  cottony  white,  across  the  hard  sand 
to  the  young  man's  feet.  He  felt  exhilarated. 
And  his  hunger  returned.  Then  Mila's  voice 
sounded  near  him.  She  carried  a  basket  and 
fairly  ran  in  her  eagerness. 

"  Mr.  Shannon,  Mr.  Shannon,  good  Prince 
Gerald  — "  he  was  amazed;  where  could  she 
have  heard  his  Christian  name  ?  —  "  your  break- 
fast. Wait  —  don't  swim  the  seas  to  New  York 
for  it.  Here  it  is."  She  opened  the  basket  and 
handed  him  a  jug  of  coffee  and  showed  him  the 
rolls  inside.  Without  the  slightest  embarrass- 
ment he  thanked  her  and  drank  his  coffee, 
walking ;  he  ate  the  bread,  and  felt,  as  he  ex- 
pressed it,  like  leading  a  forlorn  hope.  They 
went  on,  the  cutting  sunshine  and  sparkling 
breeze  alluring  them  to  vague  distances.  It  was 
long  after  midday  when  they  marched  back  at  a 
slower  pace,  Gerald  swinging  the  basket  like  a 
light-hearted  boy,  instead  of  the  desperado  he 
fancied  himself. 

Entering  the  house,  Mila  hunted  up  some  cold 
89 


VISIONARIES 

meat,  and  with  fresh  tea  and  stale  bread  they 
were  contented.  The  formidable  pyrotechnist 
did  not  appear,  and  so  the  young  people  enjoyed 
the  day  in  each  other's  company.  She  conducted 
him  like  a  river  through  the  lands  of  sociology, 
DostoTewsky,  and  Chopin.  She  played,  but  made 
him  sit  in  the  hall,  for  the  piano  was  in  her  pri- 
vate room.  And  then  they  began  to  exchange 
confidences.  It  was  dusk  before  the  prince  re- 
turned, in  the  attire  of  a  workingman,  his  face 
and  hands  covered  with  soot  and  grease.  A 
hard  day's  labour,  he  said,  and  did  not  seem  sur- 
prised to  see  Shannon. 

After  supper  he  asked  Gerald*  if  he  would 
smoke  a  pipe  with  him  in  his  laboratory.  Mila 
must  have  bored  him  enough  by  this  time  !  They 
lighted  their  pipes ;  but  Mila  refused  to  be  sent 
away.  She  sat  down  beside  her  uncle  and  put 
her  elbows  on  the  table — white,  strong  arms  she 
had,  and  Gerald  only  took  his  eyes  from  their 
pleasing  contemplation  to  lift  them  to  hers.  He 
was  fast  losing  what  little  prudence  he  had ;  he 
was  a  Celt,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  known  Mila 
for  a  century. 

"Young  man,"  said  Prince  Karospina,  sharply, 
"  you  have  the  message  I  gave  you  last  night ! 
Well  —  and  you  will  say  #<?,  to  my  beloved  friend 
K.,  without  knowing  why.  And  you  will  think 
that  you  have  been  dealing  with  a  man  whose 
hard  head  has  turned  to  the  mush  of  human 
kindness,  —  an  altruist.  Ah  !  I  know  how  you 
fellows  despise  the  word.  But  what  have  Kro- 
90 


THE  SPIRAL  ROAD 

potkin,  Elisee  Reclus,  Jean  Grave,  or  the  rest 
accomplished  ?  To  build  up,  not  to  tear  down, 
should  be  the  object  of  the  scientific  anarch. 
Stop  !  You  need  not  say  the  earth  has  to  be 
levelled  and  ploughed  before  sowing  the  seed. 
That  suits  turnip  fields,  not  the  garden  of  human- 
ity. Educate  the  downtrodden  into  liberty,  is 
my  message,  not  the  slaughtering  of  monarchs. 
How  am  I  going  to  go  about  it  ?  Ah !  that's 
my  affair,  my  dear  sir.  After  I  read  a  certain 
book  by  Tolstoy,  I  realized  that  art  was  as  potent 
an  agent  for  mischief  as  the  knout.  Music  — 
music  is  rooted  in  sex;  it  works  miracles  of 
evil  —  " 

"  Now,  uncle,  I  won't  hear  a  word  against 
Chopin,"  said  Mila,  looking  toward  Gerald  for 
approval. 

"  Music,  Mila,  in  the  hands  of  evil  men  is  an 
instrument  dangerous  to  religion,  to  civilization. 
What  of  Illowski  and  his  crazy  attack  on  Paris 
and  St.  Petersburg  ?  You  remember,  Shannon! 
Leave  Wagner  out  of  the  question  —  there  is 
no  fusion  of  the  arts  in  his  music  drama  —  only 
bad  verse,  foolish  librettos,  dealing  with  mon- 
sters and  gods,  and  indifferent  scene-painting. 
Moreover,  this  new  music  is  not  understood  by 
the  world.  Even  if  the  whole  of  mankind  could 
be  assembled  on  the  roof  of  the  world  and  at  a 
preconcerted  signal  made  to  howl  the  Marseil- 
laise, it  would  not  be  educated  to  the  heights  I 
imagine.  Stage  plays  —  Shakespeare  has  no 
message  for  our  days ;  Ibsen  is  an  anarchist  — 


VISIONARIES 

he  believes  in  placing  the  torpedo  under  the 
social  ark.  Painting  —  it  is  an  affair  for  state 
galleries  and  the  cabinets  of  wealthy  amateurs. 
Literature  is  a  dead  art  —  every  one  writes  and 
reads  and  no  one  understands.  Religion !  Ah ! 
Yes,  religion ;  the  world  will  be  a  blackened  cin- 
der or  cometary  gas  before  the  love  of  God  is 
stamped  from  its  heart.  But  religion  and  art 
must  go  hand  in  hand.  Divorced,  art  has  fallen 
into  the  Slough  of  Despond ;  else  has  been 
transformed  into  an  acrid  poison  wherewith 
men's  souls  are  destroyed  as  if  by  a  virulent 
absinthe.  United  with  religion,  art  is  •  purified. 
All  art  sprang  from  religion.  All  great  art,  from 
a  Greek  statue  to  a  Gothic  cathedral,  from  a 
Bach  fugue  to  Michael  Angelo,  was  religious. 
Therefore,  if  we  are  to  reach  the  hearts  of  the 
people,  we  must  make  art  the  handmaid  of  reli- 
gion.'* He  stopped  for  breath.  Gerald  inter- 
posed :  — 

"  But,  dear  prince,  you  say  '  art.'  What  art  — 
painting,  sculpture,  architecture,  music,  poetry, 
drama  —  ?" 

"  One  art,"  harshly  cried  the  now  excited  man, 
as  he  pounded  the  table  with  his  hard  fist.  "  One 
art,  my  art,  the  fusion  of  all  the  arts.  I,  Prince 
Igorovitch  Karospina,  tell  you  that  I  have  dis- 
covered the  secret  of  the  arts  never  dreamed  of 
by  Wagner  and  his  futile,  painted  music  on  a 
painted  stage ;  I  have  gone,  not  to  art,  but  to 
nature  —  colour,  fire,  the  elements.  The  eye  is 
keener  than  the  ear,  vision  is  easier  compre- 
92 


THE  SPIRAL  ROAD 

hended  than  tone.  Ah !  I  have  you  interested 
at  last." 

He  began  walking  as  if  to  overtake  a  missing 
idea.  His  niece  watched  him  cynically. 

"  I  fear  you  are  boring  Mr.  Shannon,"  she  said 
in  her  most  birdlike  accents.  Her  uncle  turned 
on  her. 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  am.  Go  to  bed  !  I  am 
nearing  the  climax  of  a  lifetime,  and  I  feel  that 
I  must  talk  to  a  sympathetic  ear.  You  are  not 
bored,  dear  friend.  I  have  pondered  this  mat- 
ter for  more  than  thirty  years.  I  have  studied 
all  the  arts  —  painting  particularly ;  'and  with 
colour,  with  colourful  design  I  mean  to  teach 
mankind  the  great  lessons  of  the  masters  and 
of  religion." 

"  Ah,  you  will  exhibit  in  large  halls,  panoramic 
pictures,  I  suppose,"  interrupted  Shannon. 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  was  the  testy  reply. 
"  For  thousands  of  years  the  world  has  been 
gazing  upon  dead  stones  and  canvases,  reading 
dead  words.  Dead  —  all,  I  tell  you,  all  of  these 
arts.  And  painting  is  only  in  two  dimensions 
—  a  poor  copy  of  nature.  The  theatre  has 
its  possibilities,  but  is  too  restricted  in  space. 
Music  is  alive.  It  moves;  but  its  message  is 
not  articulate  to  all.  I  want  an  art  that  will  be 
understood  and  admired  at  a  glance  by  the  world 
from  pole  to  pole.  I  want  an  art  that  will 
live  and  move  and  tell  a  noble  tale.  I  want  an 
art  that  will  appeal  to  the  eye  by  its  colouring 
and  the  soul  by  its  beautiful  designs.  Where  is 
93 


VISIONARIES 

that  legend-laden  art  ?  Hitherto  it  has  not 
existed.  I  have  found  it.  I  have  tracked  it 
down  until  I  am  the  master  who  by  a  touch  can 
liberate  elemental  forces,  which  will  not  destroy, 
like  those  of  Illowski's,  but  will  elevate  the  soul 
and  make  mankind  one  great  nation,  one  loving 
brotherhood.  Ah !  to  open  once  more  those 
doors  of  faith  closed  by  the  imperious  dogmas 
of  science — open  them  upon  a  lovely  land  of 
mystery.  Mankind  must  have  mystery.  And 
beyond  each  mystery  lies  another.  This  will 
be  our  new  religion." 

Gerald  had  caught  the  enthusiasm  of  this 
swelling  prologue  and  rose,  his  face  alight  with 
curiosity. 

"  And  that  art  is  —  is  —  ? "  he  stammered. 

"  That  art  is  —  pyrotechny."  It  was  too  much 
for  the  young  man's  nerves,  and  he  fell  back 
in  his  chair,  purple  with  suppressed  laughter. 
Angrily  darting  at  him  and  catching  his  left 
shoulder  in  a  vicelike  grip,  Karospina  growled: 

"  You  fool,  how  dare  you  mock  something  you 
know  nothing  of?  "  He  shook  his  guest  roughly. 

"  Uncle,  uncle,  be  patient !  Tell  Mr.  Shan- 
non, and  he,  too,  will  become  a  believer.  I 
believe  in  you.  I  believe  in  him,  Mr.  Shannon. 
Don't  sneer !  Tell  him,  uncle."  Mila's  words, 
almost  imploring  in  their  tone,  calmed  the  infuri- 
ated inventor,  who  left  the  room.  He  reentered 
in  a  moment,  his  head  dripping,  and  he  was 
grinning  broadly. 

"  Whenever  I  encounter  a  refractory  pattern 

94 


THE   SPIRAL  ROAD 

in  my  fireworks  —  as  you  call  them  —  I  am  com- 
pelled to  throw  a  bucket  of  water  over  it  to 
quench  its  too  ardent  spirits.  I  have  just  done 
the  same  to  my  own  head,  dear  Mr.  Shannon, 
and  I  ask  your  pardon  for  my  rudeness.  Get 
some  fresh  tea,  Mila,  strong  tea,  Mila."  Pipes 
were  relighted  and  the  conversation  resumed. 

"I  forgot  in  my  obsession,  in  what  Jacob 
Boehme  calls  'the  shudder  of  divine  excite- 
ment,' that  I  was  talking  to  one  of  the  unini- 
tiated. I  suppose  you  think  by  pyrotechny  I 
mean  the  old-fashioned  methods  of  set  pieces, 
ghastly  portraits  in  fire,  big,  spouting  wheels, 
rockets,  war  scenes  from  contemporary  history, 
seaside  stuff,  badly  done  —  and  flowery  squibs. 
My  boy,  all  that,  still  admired  by  our  country 
cousins,  is  the  very  infancy  of  my  art.  In 
China,  where  nearly  everything  was  invented 
ages  ago,  in  China  I  learned  the  first  principles, 
also  the  possibilities  of  the  art  of  fireworks  ; 
yes,  call  it  by  its  humble  title.  In  China  I  have 
seen  surprising  things  at  night.  Pagodas  blown 
across  the  sky,  an  army  of  elephants  in  pursuit, 
and  all  bathed  in  the  most  divine  hues  imag- 
inable. But  their  art  suffers  from  convention. 
They  accomplish  miracles  considering  the  medium 
they  work  in  —  largely  gunpowder.  And  their 
art  has  no  meaning,  no  message,  no  moral  princi- 
ple, no  soul.  Years  ago  I  discovered  all  the  aids 
necessary  to  the  pyrotechnist.  I  am  not  a 
chemist  for  nothing.  If  I  can  paint  a  fair  imita- 
tion of  a  Claude  Monet  on  canvas,  I  can  also 
95 


VISIONARIES 

produce  for  you  a  colourless  gas  which,  when 
handled  by  a  virtuoso,  produces  astonishing 
illusions.  In  the  open  air,  against  the  dark 
background  of  the  horizon,  I  can  show  you  the 
luminous  dots  plane  wise  of  the  Impressionists ; 
or  I  can  give  you  the  broad,  sabrelike  brushwork 
of  Velasquez,  or  the  imperial  tintings  of  Titian. 
I  can  paint  pictures  on  the  sky.  I  can  produce 
blazing  symphonies.  I  will  prove  to  you  that 
colour  is  also  music.  This  sounds  as  if  I  were 
a  victim  to  that  lesion  of  the  brain  called 
'coloured-audition.'  Perhaps!  Not  Helmholtz 
or  Chevreul  can  tell  me  anything  new  in  the 
science  of  optics.  I  am  the  possessor  of  the 
rainbow  secrets  —  for  somewhere  in  Iceland,  a 
runic  legend  runs,  there  is  a  region  vast  as  night, 
where  all  the  rainbows  —  worn  out  or  to  be  used 
—  drift  about  in  their  vapoury  limbo.  I  have 
the  key  to  this  land  of  dreams.  Over  the  earth 
I  shall  float  my  rainbows  of  art  like  a  flock  of 
angels.  With  them  I  propose  to  dazzle  the  eyes 
of  mankind,  to  arouse  sleeping  souls.  From 
the  chords  of  the  combined  arts  I  shall  extort 
nobler  cadences,  nobler  rhythms,  for  men  to  live 
by,  for  men  to  die  for !  " 

Shannon.was  impressed.  Through  the  smoke 
of  his  host's  discourse  he  discovered  genuine 
fire.  The  philosopher  took  his  hand  and  led 
him  to  the  window. 

"  Stand  there  a  moment !  "  he  adjured.  Mila 
joined  him  and  after  turning  the  lamp  to  a  pin- 
head  of  light,  their  shoulders  touching  —  for  the 


THE  SPIRAL  ROAD 

window  was  narrow  —  they  peered  into  the  night 
They  were  on  the  side  of  the  water.  Suddenly 
Gerald  exclaimed :  — 

"What's  that  light  out  at  sea  —  far  out?  It 
looks  like  the  moon  !  " 

"  It  is  the  sun,"  coolly  replied  his  companion. 
They  saw  arise  from  the  waters  a  majestic, 
glowing  sphere  of  light,  apparently  the  size 
of  the  sun.  It  flooded  the  country  with  its 
glare,  and  after  sailing  nearly  in  front  of  the 
house  it  shrank  into  a  scarlet  cross  not  larger 
than  a  man's  hand.  Then  in  a  shower  of 
sparks  it  ceased,  its  absence  making  the  black- 
ness almost  corporeal.  Instinctively  the  hands 
of  the  two  indulged  in  a  long  pressure,  and  Mila 
quickly  adjusted  the  lamp.  But  Gerald  still 
stood  at  the  window  a  prey  to  astonishment, 
terror,  stupefaction. 

Karospina  entered.  His  face  was  slightly 
flushed  and  in  his  eyes  there  burned  the  sombre 
fire  of  the  fanatic.  Triumphantly  he  regarded 
his  young  friend. 

"That  was  only  a  little  superfluous  gas  — 
nothing  I  cared  to  show  you.  Read  the  news- 
papers to-morrow,  and  you  will  learn  that  a  big 
meteor  burst  off  the  north  coast  the  night  before, 
and  fell  into  the  sea."  Then  he  moved  closer 
and  whispered :  — 

"The  time  is  at  hand.     Within  three  weeks 

—  not  later  than   the   middle   of   October — I 

shall  make   my  first  public  test.     'Thus  saith 

the  Lord   God   to   the   mountains   and  to  the 

97 


VISIONARIES 

hills,  to  the  rivers  and  to  the  valleys :  Behold, 
I,  even  I,  will  bring  a  sword  upon  you,  and  I 
will  destroy  your  high  places.'  " 

His  voice  rose  in  passion,  his  face  worked  in 
anger,  and  he  shook  his  clenched  fists  at  an 
imaginary  universe.  So  this  man  of  peace  was 
a  destroyer,  after  all!  Gerald  aroused  him. 
Again  he  asked  pardon.  Mila  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen,  and  with  a  sinking  at  the  heart 
new  to  his  buoyant  temperament,  Gerald  bade 
the  magician  good  night.  It  was  arranged  that 
he  would  leave  the  next  day,  for,  like  Milton, 
he  was  haunted  by  "the  ghost  of  a  linen 
decency."  But  that  night  he  did  not  sleep, 
and  no  sound  of  music  came  to  his  ears  from 
Mila's  chamber.  Once  he  tried  to  open  his 
window.  It  was  nailed  down. 

A  gray  day  greeted  his  tired  eyes.  In  an 
hour  he  was  bidding  his  friends  good-by  and 
thanking  them  for  their  hospitality.  He  had 
hoped  that  Mila  would  accompany  him  a  few 
steps  on  his  long  journey,  but  she  made  no  sign 
beyond  a  despairing  look  at  her  uncle,  who  was 
surly,  as  if  he  had  felt  the  reaction  from  too 
prolonged  a  debauch  of  the  spirit.  Gerald  lit 
his  pipe,  kissed  the  hand  of  Mila  with  em- 
phasis, and  parted  from  them.  He  had  not 
gone  a  hundred  yards  before  he  heard  soft 
footsteps  tracking  him.  He  turned  and  was 
disappointed  to  see  that  it  was  only  Karospina, 
who  came  up  to  him,  breathing  heavily,  and 
in  his  catlike  eyes  the  fixed  expression  of 
98 


THE  SPIRAL  ROAD 

monomania.  He  stuttered,  waving  his  arms 
aloft. 

"The  time  is  at  hand  and  the  end  of  all 
things  shall  be  accomplished.  You  shall  return 
for  the  great  night.  You  shall  hear  of  it  in  the 
world.  Tell  K.  that  I  said  no!  He  must  be 
with  us  at  the  transfiguration  of  all  things,  when 
mankind  shall  go  up  the  spiral  road  of  per- 
fection." 

Gerald  Shannon  fairly  ran  to  escape  knowing 
more  about  the  universal  panacea.  And  when 
he  turned  for  the  last  time  the  sea  and  tower 
and  man  were  blotted  out  by  wavering  mists  of 
silver. 

Ill 
THE  FIERY  CHARIOT 

The  young  man  soon  heard  of  Karospina's 
project.  A  week  before  the  event  the  news- 
papers began  describing  the  experiments  of 
the  new  Russian  wonder-worker,  but  treated 
the  matter  with  calm  journalistic  obliviousness 
to  any  but  its  most  superficial  aspects.  A 
scientific  pyrotechnist  was  a  novelty,  particu- 
larly as  the  experimentings  were  to  be  given 
with  the  aid  of  a  newly  discovered  gas.  Strange 
rumours  of  human  levitations,  of  flying  machines 
seen  after  dark  at  unearthly  heights,  were 
printed.  This  millionnaire,  who  had  expended 
fortunes  in  trying  to  accomplish  what  Maxim 

99 


VISIONARIES 

and  Langley  had  failed  in  achieving,  was  a  good 
peg  upon  which  to  hang  thrilling  gossip.  He 
promised  to  convince  the  doubting  ones  that  at 
last  man  would  come  into  the  empire  of  the 
air,  and  by  means  of  fireworks.  In  search- 
ing carefully  all  the  published  reports  Gerald 
was  relieved  not  to  encounter  the  name  of 
Mila. 

That  celebrated  afternoon  he  found  himself, 
after  the  distressingly  crowded  cars,  in  company 
with  many  thousands,  all  clamouring  and  jos- 
tling on  the  road  to  the  tower.  This  time  there 
were  vehicles  and  horses,  though  not  in  any 
degree  commensurate  with  the  crowd ;  but  the 
high  tax  imposed  by  the  speculators  gave  him 
an  opportunity  of  securing  a  seat  with  a  few 
others  in  a  carriage  drawn  by  four  horses. 
Gingerly  they  made  their  way  down  the  narrow 
road  —  time  was  not  gained,  for  the  packed  mass 
of  humans  refused  to  separate.  Fuming  at  the 
delay,  he  was  forced  to  console  himself  with 
smoking  and  listening  to  the  stories  told  of 
Karospina  and  his  miracles.  They  were  exag- 
gerated. Karospina  here,  Karospina  there  — 
the  name  of  this  modern  magician  was  hummed 
everywhere  in  the  brisk  October  air.  A  little 
man  who  occupied  the  seat  with  Shannon  in- 
formed him  that  he  knew  some  one  who  had 
worked  for  Karospina.  He  declared  that  it  was 
no  uncommon  sight  for  the  conjurer — he  was 
usually  called  by  that  name  —  to  float  like  a 
furled  flag  over  his  house  when  the  sun  had  set. 

ICO 


THE  SPIRAL-  ROAD 

Also  he  had  been  seen  driving  in  the  sky  a 
span  of  three  fiery  horses  in  a  fiery  chariot 
across  the  waters  of  the  bay,  while  sitting  by 
his  side  was  the  star-crowned  Woman  of  the 
Apocalypse  clothed  with  the  sun  and  the  moon 
under  her  feet.  Gerald  held  his  counsel ;  but 
the  grandeur  of  the  spectacle  he  had  witnessed 
still  shook  his  soul  —  if  he  had  not  been  the 
victim  of  a  hallucination !  The  journey  seemed 
endless. 

At  last  the  strand  came  into  view  with  the 
squat  tower,  the  rusting  machinery,  and  the  res- 
ervoir back  of  the  house.  There  were,  however, 
changes  in  the  scene.  Within  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  of  the  beach  tents  were  set  and  booths 
erected.  Seemingly  all  the  city  had  rushed  to 
this  place,  and  the  plain,  with  its  swampy  sur- 
faces, was  dotted  by  masses  of  noisy  men  and 
women.  Gerald,  finding  that  approach  to  the 
house  was  impossible  from  the  land  side,  made 
a  wide  detour,  and  on  reaching  the  shore  he  was 
gratified  to  find  it  empty.  The  local  constabu- 
lary, powerless  to  fight  off  the  mob  near  the 
house,  had  devoted  their  energies  to  clearing  the 
space  about  the  gas  retorts.  After  much  bother, 
and  only  by  telling  his  name,  did  he  pass  the 
police  cordon.  Once  inside,  he  rushed  to  the 
back  door  and  found,  oh !  great  luck  —  Mila. 
Dressed  in  white,  to  his  taste  she  was  angelic. 
He  had  great  difficulty  in  keeping  his  arms 
pinioned  to  his  side;  but  his  eyes  shone  with 
the  truth  beating  at  the  bars  of  his  bosom,  and 
101 


VISIONARIES 

Mila  knew  it.    He  felt  this  and  was  light-headed 
in  his  happiness. 

They  greeted.  Mila's  face  wore  a  serious 
expression. 

"  I'm  very  glad  you  have  come  down.  I  think 
uncle  will  be  glad  also.  I  am  happy  to  see  you 
again;  I  have  missed  you  these  past  weeks. 
But  my  happiness  is  nothing  just  now,  Gerald ! 
[He  started.]  My  uncle,  you  must  speak  with 
him.  From  brboding  so  much  over  the  Holy 
Scriptures,  and  the  natural  excitement  of  his  dis- 
coveries —  they  are  so  extraordinary,  dear  friend, 
that  he  means  always  to  keep  them  to  himself, 
for  he  rightly  believes  that  the  governments  of 
the  world  would  employ  them  for  wicked  pur- 
poses, war,  the  destruction  of  weaker  nations  — 
he  has  become  overwrought.  You  may  not  know 
it,  he  has  a  very  strong,  sane  head  on  his 
shoulders;  but  this  scheme  for  lifting  up  the 
masses,  I  suspect,  may  upset  his  own  equilib- 
rium. And  his  constant  study  of  the  Apoca- 
lypse and  the  Hebraic  revelations  —  it  has  filled 
him  with  strange  notions.  Understand  me  :  a 
man  who  can  swim  in  the  air  like  a  fish  in  the 
sea  is  apt  to  become  unstrung.  He  has  begun 
to  identify  himself  with  the  prophets.  He  in- 
sists on  showing  biblical  pictures,  —  worse  still, 
appearing  in  them  himself." 

"  How  *  appearing  in  them '  ? "  asked  Gerald, 
wonderingly. 

"  In  actual  person.  I,  too,  have  promised  to 
go  with  him." 

102 


THE  SPIRAL  ROAD 

"  In  a  transparency  of  fire,  you  mean  ?  Isn't 
it  dangerous  ? "  She  hung  her  head. 

"  No,  in  mid  air,  in  a  fiery  chariot,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"  The  Woman  of  the  Apocalypse  ! "  he  cried. 
"Oh!  Princess  Mila,  dearest  Mila  Georgovics, 
promise  me  that  you  will  not  risk  such  a  crazy 
experiment."  Gerald  pressed  his  fingers  to  his 
throbbing  temples. 

"  It  is  no  experiment  at  all,"  she  said,  in  al- 
most inaudible  tones ;  "  last  night  we  flew  over 
the  house"  He  stared  at  her,  his  hands  trem- 
bling, and  no  longer  able  to  play  the  incredulous. 

"  But,  dear  friend,  I  fear  one  other  thing ;  the 
gas  which  uncle  has  discovered  is  so  tenuous 
that  it  is  a  million  times  lighter  than  air ;  but  it 
is  ever  at  a  terrible  tension  —  I  mean  it  is  dan- 
gerous if  not  carefully  treated.  Last  summer, 
one  afternoon,  a  valve  broke  and  a  large  quan- 
tity escaped  from  the  reservoir,  luckily  on  the 
ocean  side.  It  caused  a  storm  and  water-spouts, 
and  destroyed  a  few  vessels.  The  coruscating 
gas  creates  a  vacuum  into  which  the  air  rushes 
with  incredible  velocity.  So  promise  me  that 
while  we  are  flying  you  will  stay  with  the  police 
at  the  gas  machines  and  keep  off  the  crowd. 
Promise ! " 

"  But  I  shan't  permit  you  to  go  up  with  this 
renegade  to  the  revolutionary  cause  — "  he  began 
impetuously.  She  put  warning  fingers  to  her 
lips.  In  the  white  flowing  robes  of  an  antique 
priest,  Karospina  came  out  to  them  and  took 
103 


VISIONARIES 

Gerald  by  the  hand.  He  was  abstracted  and 
haggard,  and  his  eyes  glared  about  him.  He 
chanted  in  a  monotone  :  — 

"  The  time  is  at  hand.  Soon  you  will  see  the 
Angels  of  the  Seals.  I  shall  show  the  multi- 
tude Death  on  the  Pale  Horse  and  the  vision  of 
Ezekiel.  And  you  shall  behold  the  star  called 
Wormwood,  the  great  star  of  the  third  angel, 
which  shall  fall  like  a  burning  lamp  upon  the 
waters  and  turn  them  bitter.  And  at  the  last 
you  will  see  the  chariot  of  Elijah  caught  up  to 
heaven  in  a  fiery  whirlwind.  In  it  will  be  seated 
the  Princess  Mila  —  we,  the  conquerors  of  the 
wicked  world." 

"Yes,  but  only  as  an  image,  an  illusion," 
ejaculated  the  unhappy  lover,  "  not  in  reality." 

"As  she  is,"  imperiously  answered  Karospina, 
and  seizing  Mila  by  the  arm,  said,  "  Come !  " 
She  threw  a  kiss  to  Gerald  and  in  her  eyes 
were  tears.  He  saw  them  and  could  have 
wept  himself.  He  followed  the  sacrificial  pair 
as  far  as  the  reservoir,  muttering  warnings  in 
which  were  mixed  the  fates  of  Phaethon  and 
Simon  Magus  —  that  heretic  who  mimicked  the 
miracles  of  the  apostles. 

It  was  now  dark  ;  the  order  to  extinguish  all 
lights  on  the  moor  had  been  obeyed.  Only  a 
panting  sound  as  if  from  a  wilderness  of  fright- 
ened animals  betrayed  the  presence  of  thou- 
sands. As  long  as  the  sun  shone  there  had 
been  a  babel  of  sound ;  at  the  disappearance  of 
104 


THE  SPIRAL  ROAD 

our  parent  planet,  a  hushed  awe  had  fallen  with 
the  night.  Gone  the  rude  joking  and  wrangling, 
the  crying  of  children,  and  the  shrill  laughter 
of  the  women.  A  bitter  breeze  swept  across 
from  the  waters,  and  the  stars  were  mere  twin- 
kling points. 

Then  from  the  vault  of  heaven  darted  a  ribbon 
of  emerald  fire.  It  became  a  luminous  spiral 
when  it  touched  the  sea  of  glass,  which  was  like 
unto  a  floor  of  crystal.  This  was  the  sign  of 
Karospina's  undertaking,  his  symbol  of  the  road 
to  moral  perfection.  Gerald  recalled  Whistler's 
pyrotechnical  extravaganzas.  Following  this 
came  a  pale  moon  which  emerged  from  the 
north ;  a  second,  a  third,  a  fourth,  started  up 
from  the  points  of  the  compass,  and  after  wab- 
bling in  the  wind  like  gigantic  balloons,  merged 
overhead  in  an  indescribable  disk  which  assumed 
the  features  of  Michael  Angelo's  Moses.  Here 
is  a  new  technique,  indeed,  thought  Gerald;  yet 
he  could  not  detect  its  moral  values. 

A  golden  landscape  was  projected  on  land 
and  sea.  A  central  aisle  of  waters,  paved  by 
the  golden  rays  of  a  lyric  sun  high  overhead, 
was  embellished  on  either  side  by  the  marmoreal 
splendours  of  stately  palaces.  An  ilex  inclined 
its  graceful  head  to  its  liquid  image ;  men  moved 
the  blocks  that  made  famous  in  the  mouth  of 
the  world  Queen  Dido's  Carthage.  Clouds  of 
pearl-coloured  smoke  encircled  the  enchanting 
picture.  And  the  galleys  came  and  went  in 
this  symphonic,  glittering  spectacle, 
105 


VISIONARIES 

"Turner  would  have  died  of  envy,"  said 
Gerald  aloud.  There  was  a  remarkable  vibra- 
tion of  life,  not  as  he  had  seen  it  in  mechanical 
bioscopes,  but  the  vivid  life  of  earth  and  sun- 
shine. 

The  scenes  that  succeeded  were  many :  epi- 
sodes from  profane  and  sacred  histories ;  simu- 
lacra of  the  great  saints.  A  war  between  giants 
and  pygmies  was  shown  with  all  its  accompany- 
ing horrors.  The  firmament  dripped  crimson. 
The  four  cryptic  creatures  of  Ezekiel's  vision 
came  out  of  the  north,  a  great  cloud  of  "  infold- 
ing fire  "  and  the  colour  was  amber.  A  cyclopean 
and  dazzling  staircase  thronged  by  moving 
angelic  shapes,  harping  mute  harps,  stretched 
from  sea  to  sky,  melting  into  the  milky  way  like 
the  tail  of  a  starry  serpent.  Followed  the 
opening  of  the  dread  prophetic  seals ;  but,  after 
an  angel  had  descended  from  heaven,  his  face  as 
the  sun  and  at  his  feet  pillars  of  fire,  the  people, 
prostrate  like  stalks  of  corn  beaten  by  a  tempest, 
worshipped  in  fear.  These  things  were  super- 
natural. The  heavens  were  displaying  the  glory 
of  God. 

Not  knowing  whether  the  signs  in  the  skies 
might  be  construed  as  blasphemous,  and  lost 
in  fathomless  admiration  for  the  marvellous 
power  of  the  wizard,  Gerald  sought  to  get  closer 
to  Karospina  and  Mila.  But  wedged  in  by 
uniformed  men,  and  the  darkness  thick  as  an 
Egyptian  plague,  he  despairingly  awaited  the 
apotheosis.  His  eyes  were  sated  by  the  mira- 
106 


THE  SPIRAL  ROAD 

cles  of  harmonies  —  noiseless  harmonies.  It 
was  a  new  art,  and  one  for  the  peoples  of  the 
earth.  Never  had  the  hues  of  the  universe  been 
so  assembled,  grouped,  and  modulated.  And 
the  human  eye,  adapting  itself  to  the  new  syn- 
thesis of  arabesque  and  rhythm,  evoked  order 
and  symbolism  from  these  novel  chords  of  colour. 
There  were  solemn  mountains  of  opalescent  fire 
which  burst  and  faded  into  flaming  colonnades, 
and  in  an  enchanting  turquoise  effervescence 
became  starry  spears  and  scimiters  and  spar- 
kling shields,  and  finally  the  whole  mass  would 
reunite  and  evaporate  into  brilliant  violet  auroras 
or  seven-tailed,  vermilion-coloured  comets.  There 
were  gleaming  rainbows  of  unknown  tints  — 
strange  scales  of  chromatic  pigments ;  "  a  fiery 
snow  without  wind ;  "  and  once  a  sun,  twice  the 
size  of  our  own,  fell  into  the  ocean ;  and  Gerald 
could  have  sworn  that  he  felt  a  wave  of  heated 
air  as  if  from  a  furnace ;  that  he  heard  a  seeth- 
ing sound,  as  if  white-hot  metal  had  come  in 
contact  with  icy  water.  Consumed  by  anxiety 
for  Mila's  safety,  he  wished  that  these  soundless 
girandoles,  this  apocalypse  of  architectural  fire 
and  weaving  flame,  would  end. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  A  shrewd  hissing 
apprised  him  that  something  unusual  was  about 
to  occur.  Like  the  flight  of  a  great  rocket  a 
black  object  quickly  mounted  to  the  zenith.  It 
did  not  become  visible  for  several  seconds ; 
Gerald's  nerves  crisped  with  apprehension. 
The  apparition  was  an  incandescent  chariot; 
107 


\        VISIONARIES 

in  it  sat  Karospina,  and  beside  him  —  oh !  the 
agony  of  her  lover  —  Mila  Georgovics.  As  the 
fiery  horses  swooped  down,  he  could  see  her  face 
in  a  radiant  nimbus  of  meteors,  which  encircled 
the  equipage.  Karospina  proudly  directed  its 
course  over  the  azure  route,  and  once  he  passed 
Gerald  at  a  dangerously  low  curve  earthward, 
shouting :  — 

"The  Spiral!     The  Spiral!" 

It  was  his  last  utterance;  possibly  through 
some  flaw  in  the  mechanism,  the  chariot  zig- 
zagged and  then  drove  straight  upon  the  reser- 
voir. To  the  reverberation  of  smashed  steel 
and  blinding  f  ulguration  the  big  sphere  was  split 
open  and  Mila  with  Karospina  vanished  in  the 
nocturnal  gulf. 

Gerald,  stunned  by  the  catastrophe,  threw 
himself  down,  expecting  a  mighty  explosion ; 
the  ebon  darkness  was  appalling  after  the  scin- 
tillating rain  of  fire.  But  the  liberated  gas  in  the 
guise  of  an  elongated  cloud  had  rushed  seaward, 
and  there  gathering  density  and  strength,  as- 
sumed the  shape  of  a  terrific  funnel,  an  inky 
spiral,  its  gyrating  sides  streaked  with  intermit- 
tent flashes.  Its  volcanic  roaring  and  rapid 
return  to  land  was  a  signal  for  vain  flight  —  the 
miserable  lover  knew  it  to  be  the  flamboyant  ether 
of  the  pyromaniac  transformed  into  a  trumpet- 
ing tornado.  And  he  hoped  that  it  would  not 
spare  him,  as  this  phantasm  twirled  and  ululated 
in  the  heavens,  a  grim  portent  of  the  iron  wrath 
of  the  Almighty.  In  a  twinkling  it  had  passed 
108 


THE  SPIRAL  ROAD 

him,  high  in  the  dome  of  heaven,  only  to  erase 
in  a  fabulous  blast  the  moaning  multitude.  And 
prone  upon  the  strand  between  the  stormy  waters 
and  the  field  of  muddy  dead,  Gerald  Shannon 
prayed  for  a  second  cataclysm  which  might 
bring  oblivion  to  him  alone. 


109 


VI 

A   MOCK  SUN 

Where  are  the  sins  of  yester-year? 

I 

THE  grating  of  the  carriage  wheels  awoke 
her  from  the  dream  which  had  lightly  brushed 
away  the  night  and  the  vision  of  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe  —  looming  into  the  mystery  of  sky 
and  stars,  its  monumental  flanks  sprawling  across 
the  Place  de  1'Etoile.  She  heard  her  name  called 
by  Mrs.  Sheldam  as  their  coachman  guided  his 
horses  through  the  gateway  of  the  Princesse  de 
Lancovani's  palace. 

"  Now,  Ermentrude !  Wake  up,  dear ;  we 
are  there,"  said  Mrs.  Sheldam,  in  her  kind,  drawl- 
ing tones.  Mr.  Sheldam  sighed  and  threw  away 
the  unlighted  cigar  he  had  bitten  during  the  ride 
along  the  Champs  Elys^es.  Whatever  the  even- 
ing meant  for  his  wife  and  niece,  he  saw  little 
entertainment  in  store  for  himself;  he  did  not 
speak  French  very  well,  he  disliked  music  and 
"  tall  talk  "  ;  all  together  he  wished  himself  at  the 
Grand  H6tel,  where  he  would  be  sure  to  meet 
some  jolly  Americans.  Their  carriage  had 
no 


A  MOCK  SUN 

halted  in  front  of  a  spacious  marble  stairway, 
lined  on  either  side  with  palms,  and  though  it 
was  a  June  night,  the  glass  doors  were  closed. 

Ermentrude's  heart  was  in  her  throat,  not 
because  of  the  splendour,  to  which  she  was  ac- 
customed ;  but  it  was  to  be  her  first  meeting 
with  a  noble  dame,  whose  name  was  historic,  at 
whose  feet  the  poets  of  the  Second  Empire  had 
prostrated  themselves,  passionately  plucking 
their  lyres ;  the  friend  of  Liszt,  Wagner,  Ber- 
lioz, of  Manet,  Degas,  Monet;  the  new  school 

—  this  wonderful   old  woman   knew  them   all, 
from  .Goncourt  and   Flaubert  to   Daudet   and 
Maupassant.     Had  she  not,  Ermentrude  remem- 
bered as  she  divested  herself  of  her  cloak,  sent 
a  famous  romancer  out  of  the  house  because 
he  spoke  slightingly  of  the  Pope  ?     Had  she  not 
cut  the  emperor  dead  when  she  saw  him  with  a 
lady  not  his  empress  ?    What  a  night  this  would 
be   in  the  American   girl's   orderly  existence ! 
And  he  was  to  be  there,  he  had  promised  the 
princess. 

Her  heart  was  overflowing  when  she  was 
graciously  received  by  the  great  lady  who  stood 
in  the  centre  of  a  group  at  the  back  of  the  draw- 
ing-room —  a  lofty  apartment  in  white  and  gold, 
the  panels  painted  by  Baudry,  the  furniture 
purest  Empire.  She  noted  the  height  and  ma- 
jestic bearing  of  this  cousin  of  kings,  noted  the 
aquiline  nose  drooped  over  a  contracted  mouth 

—  which   could   assume   most  winning  curves, 
withal  shaded  by  suspicious  down,  that  echoed 

in 


VISIONARIES 

in  hue  her  inky  eyebrows.  The  eyes  of  the 
princess  were  small  and  green  and  her  glance 
penetrating.  Her  white  hair  rolled  imperially 
from  a  high,  narrow  forehead. 

Ermentrude  bore  herself  with  the  utmost 
composure.  She  adored  the  Old  World,  adored 
genius,  but  after  all  she  was  an  Adams  of  New 
Hampshire,  her  sister  the  wife  of  a  former  am- 
bassador. It  was  more  curiosity  than  gancherie 
that  prompted  her  to  hold  the  hand  offered 
her  and  scrutinize  the  features  as  if  to  evoke 
from  the  significant,  etched  wrinkles  the  tre- 
mendous past  of  this  hostess.  The  princess 
was  pleased. 

"Ah,  Miss  Adams,"  she  said,  in  idiomatic 
English,  "you  have  candid  eyes.  You  make 
me  feel  like  telling  stories  when  you  gaze  at 
me  so  appealingly.  Don't  be  shocked "  — 
the  girl  had  coloured  —  "  perhaps  I  shall,  after 
a  while." 

Mr.  Sheldam  had  slipped  into  a  corner  be- 
hind a  very  broad  table  and  under  the  shaded 
lamps  examined  some  engravings.  Mrs.  Shel- 
dam talked  in  hesitating  French  to  the  Marquis 
de  Potachre,  an  old  fellow  of  venerable  and  bur- 
lesque appearance.  His  fierce  little  white  mus- 
taches were  curled  ceilingward,  but  his  voice  was 
as  timid  as  honey.  He  flourished  his  wizened 
hand  toward  Miss  Adams. 

"  Charming  !      Delightful !      She   has  some- 
thing  English   in   her   insouciant  pose,  and  is 
wholly  American  in  her  cerebral  quality.     And 
112 


A  MOCK  SUN 

what  colouring,  what  gorgeous  brown  hair !  What 
a  race,  madame,  is  yours !  " 

Mrs.  Sheldam  began  to  explain  that  the 
Adams  stock  was  famous,  but  the  marquis  did 
not  heed  her.  He  peered  at  her  niece  through 
a  gold-rimmed  monocle.  The  princess  had  left 
the  group  near  the  table  and  with  two  young 
men  slowly  moved  down  the  salon.  Miss  Adams 
was  immediately  surrounded  by  some  antiquated 
gentlemen  wearing  orders,  who  paid  her  compli- 
ments in  the  manner  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
She  answered  them  with  composure,  for  she  was 
sure  of  her  French,  sure  of  herself — the  prin- 
cess had  not  annihilated  her.  Her  aunt,  accom- 
panied by  the  marquis,  crossed  to  her,  and  the 
old  nobleman  amused  her  with  his  saturnine  re- 
marks. 

"  Time  was,"  he  said,  "  when  one  met  here 
the  cream  of  Parisian  wit  and  fashion  :  the  great 
Flaubert,  a  noisy  fellow  at  times,  I  vow;  Dumas 
fils;  Cabanel,  Ger6me,  Duran;  ever-winning  Car- 
olus  —  ah,  what  men!  Now  we  get  Polish 
pianists,  crazy  Belgians,  anarchistic  poets,  and 
Neo-impressionists.  I  have  warned  the  princess 
again  and  again." 

"Btcasse!"  interrupted  the  lady  herself. 
"  Monsieur  Rajewski  has  consented  to  play  a 
Chopin  nocturne.  And  here  are  my  two  paint- 
ers, Miss  Adams  —  Messieurs  Bla  and  Maugre. 
They  hate  each  other  like  the  Jesuits  and  Jan- 
senists  of  the  good  old  days  of  Pascal." 

"  She  likes  to  display  her  learning,"  grumbled 


VISIONARIES 

the  marquis  to  Mrs.  Sheldam.  "  That  younger 
man,  Bla,  swears  by  divided  tones;  his  neigh- 
bour, Maugre,  paints  in  dots.  One  is  always  to 
be  recognized  a  half-mile  away  by  his  vibrating 
waterscapes  —  he  calls  them  Symphonies  of  the 
Wet ;  the  other  goes  in  for  turkeys  in  the  grass, 
fowls  that  are  cobalt-blue  daubs,  with  grass  a 
scarlet.  It's  awful  on  the  optic  nerves.  Poin- 
tillisme,  Maugre  names  his  stuff.  Now,  give 
me  Corot—  " 

"  Hush,  hush  !  "  came  in  energetic  sibilants 
from  the  princess,  who  rapped  with  her  Japanese 
walking-stick  for  silence.  Mr.  Sheldam  woke 
up  and  fumbled  the  pictures  as  Rajewski,  slowly 
bending  his  gold-dust  aureole  until  it-  almost 
grazed  the  keyboard,  began  with  deliberate  ac- 
cents a  nocturne.  Miss  Adams  knew  his  play- 
ing well,  but  its  poetry  was  not  for  her  this 
evening ;  rather  did  the  veiled  tones  of  the  in- 
strument form  a  misty  background  to  the  human 
tableau.  So  must  Chopin  have  woven  his  magic 
last  century,  and  in  a  salon  like  this  —  the  wax 
candles  burning  with  majestic  steadiness  in  the 
sculptured  sconces ;  the  huge  fireplace,  monu- 
mental in  design,  with  its  dull  brass  garnishing ; 
the  subdued  richness  of  the  decoration  into  which 
fitted,  as  figures  in  a  frame,  the  various  guests. 
Even  the  waxed  floor  seemed  to  take  on  new  re- 
verberations as  the  pianoforte  sounded  the  sweet 
despair  of  the  Pole.  To  her  dismay  Ermentrude 
caught  herself  drifting  away  from  the  moment's 
hazy  charm  to  thoughts  of  her  poet.  It  annoyed 
114 


A  MOCK  SUN 

her,  she  sharply  reminded  herself,  that  she  could 
not  absolutely  saturate  herself  with  the  music 
and  the  manifold  souvenirs  of  the  old  h6tel; 
perhaps  this  may  have  been  the  spell  of  Rajew- 
ski's  playing.  .  .  . 

The  music  ceased.  A  dry  voice  whispered 
in  her  ear :  — 

"  Great  artist,  that  chap  Rajewski.  Had  to 
leave  Russia  once  because  he  wouldn't  play  the 
Russian  national  hymn  for  the  Czar.  Bless  me, 
but  he  was  almost  sent  to  Siberia  —  and  in  irons 
too.  Told  me  here  in  this  very  room  that  he 
was  much  frightened.  They  lighted  fires  in  Po- 
land to  honour  his  patriotism.  He  acknow- 
ledged that  he  would  have  played  twenty  national 
hymns,  but  he  couldn't  remember  the  Russian 
one,  or  never  knew  it  —  anyhow,  he  was  christ- 
ened a  patriot,  and  all  by  a  slip  of  the  memory. 
Now,  that's  luck,  isn't  it  ?  " 

She  began  to  dislike  this  cynical  old  man 
with  his  depreciating  tales  of  genius.  She  knew 
that  her  idols  often  tottered  on  clay  feet,  but  she 
hated  to  be  reminded  of  that  disagreeable  real- 
ity. She  went  to  Monsieur  Rajewski  and 
thanked  him  prettily  in  her  cool  new  voice, 
and  again  the  princess  nodded  approval. 

"She  is  chic,  your  little  girl,"  she  confided  in 
her  deep  tones  to  Mrs.  Sheldam,  whose  tired  New 
England  face  almost  beamed  at  the  compliment. 

"We  were  in  Hamburg  at  the  Zoological 
Garden ;  I  always  go  to  see  animals,"  de- 
claimed the  princess,  in  the  midst  of  a  thick 
"5 


VISIONARIES 

silence.  "  For  you  know,  my  friends,  one  stud- 
ies humanity  there  in  the  raw.  Well,  I  dragged 
our  party  to  the  large  monkey  cage,  and  we 
enjoyed  ourselves  —  immensely  !  And  what  do 
you  think  we  saw  !  A  genuine  novelty.  Some 
mischievous  sailor  had  given  an  overgrown  ape 
a  mirror,  and  the  poor  wretch  spent  its  time 
staring  at  its  image,  neglecting  its  food  and 
snarling  at  its  companions.  The  beast  would 
catch  the  reflection  of  another  ape  in  the  glass 
and  quickly  bound  to  a  more  remote  perch. 
The  keeper  told  me  that  for  a  week  his  charge 
had  barely  eaten.  It  slept  with  the  mirror  held 
tightly  in  its  paws.  Now,  what  did  the  mirror 
mean  to  the  animal !  I  believe  "  —  here  she  be- 
came very  vivacious  —  "I  really  believe  that 
it  was  developing  self-consciousness,  and  in  time 
it  would  become  human.  On  our  way  back  from 
Heligoland,  where  we  were  entertained  on  the 
emperor's  yacht  at  the  naval  manoeuvres,  we  paid 
another  visit  to  our  monkey  house.  The  poor, 
misguided  brute  had  died  of  starvation.  It  had 
become  so  vain,  so  egotistical,  so  superior,  that 
it  refused  food  and  wasted  away  in  a  corner, 
gazing  at  itself,  a  hairy  Narcissus,  or  rather  the 
perfect  type  of  your  modern  Superman,  who 
contemplates  his  ego  until  his  brain  sickens  and 
he  dies  quite  mad." 

Every  one  laughed.     Mrs.  Sheldam  wondered 
what  a  Superman  was,  and  Ermentrude  felt  an- 
noyed.    Zarathustra  was  another  of  her  gods, 
and  this  brusquely  related  anecdote  did  not  seem 
116 


A  MOCK  SUN 

to  her  very  spirituelle.  But  she  had  not  formu- 
lated an  answer  when  she  heard  a  name  an- 
nounced, a  name  that  set  her  heart  beating.  At 
last !  The  poet  had  kept  his  word.  She  was 
to  meet  in  the  flesh  the  man  whose  too  few 
books  were  her  bibles  of  art,  of  philosophy,  of 
all  that  stood  for  aspiration  toward  a  lovely  ideal 
in  a  dull,  matter-of-fact  world. 

"  Now,"  said  the  princess,  as  if  smiling  at 
some  hidden  joke,  "now  you  will  meet  my 
Superman."  And  she  led  the  young  American 
girl  to  Octave  Keroulan  and  his  wife,  and,  after 
greeting  them  in  her  masculine  manner,  she 
burst  forth  :  — 

"Dear  poet!  here  is  one  of  your  adorers 
from  overseas.  Guard  your  husband  well, 
Madame  Lys." 

So  he  was  married.  Well,  that  was  not  such 
a  shocking  fact.  Nor  was  Madame  Keroulan 
either — a  very  tall,  slim,  English-looking  blonde, 
who  dressed  modishly  and  evidently  knew  that 
she  was  the  wife  of  a  famous  man.  Ermentrude 
found  her  insipid ;  she  had  studied  her  face  first 
before  comparing  the  mental  photograph  of  the 
poet  with  the  original.  Nor  did  she  feel,  with 
unconscious  sex  rivalry,  any  sense  of  inferiority 
to  the  wife  of  her  admired  one.  He  was  nearly 
forty,  but  he  looked  older;  gray  hairs  tinged 
his  finely  modelled  head.  His  face  was  shaven, 
and  with  the  bulging  brow  and  full  jaw  he  was 
more  of  the  German  or  Belgian  than  French. 
Black  hair  thrown  off  his  broad  forehead  ac- 
117 


VISIONARIES 

cented  this  resemblance;  a  composer  rather 
than  a  prose-poet  and  dramatist,  was  the  rapid 
verdict  of  Ermentrude.  She  was  not  disap- 
pointed, though  she  had  expected  a  more  fragile 
type.  The  weaver  of  moonshine,  of  mystic 
phrases,  of  sweet  gestures  and  veiled  sonorities 
should  not  have  worn  the  guise  of  one  who  ate 
three  meals  a  day  and  slept  soundly  after  his 
mellow  incantations.  Yet  she  was  not  —  inherit- 
ing, as  she  did,  a  modicum  of  sense  from  her 
father  —  disappointed. 

The  conversation  did  not  move  more  briskly 
with  the  entrance  of  the  Keroulans.  The  mar- 
quis sullenly  gossiped  with  Mr.  Sheldam;  the 
princess  withdrew  herself  to  the  far  end  of  the 
room  with  her  two  painters.  Rajewski  was 
going  to  a  soiree,  he  informed  them,  where  he 
would  play  before  a  new  picture  by  Carriere,  as 
it  was  slowly  undraped ;  no  one  less  in  rank 
than  a  duchess  would  be  present!  A  little 
stiffly,  Ermentrude  Adams  assured  the  Kerou- 
lans of  her  pleasure  in  meeting  them.  The  poet 
took  it  as  a  matter  of  course,  simply,  without  a 
suspicion  of  posed  grandeur.  Ermentrude  saw 
this  with  satisfaction.  If  he  had  clay  feet,  — 
and  he  must  have  them ;  all  men  do,  —  at  least 
he  wore  his  genius  with  a  sense  of  its  responsi- 
bility. She  held  tightly  her  hands  and  leaned 
back,  awaiting  the  precious  moment  when  the 
oracle  would  speak,  when  this  modern  magician 
of  art  would  display  his  cunning.  But  he  was 
fatuously  commonplace  in  his  remarks. 
118 


A  MOCK  SUN 

"I  have  often  told  Madame  Keroulan  that 
my  successes  in  Europe  do  not  appeal  to  me  as 
those  in  far-away  America.  Dear  America  — 
how  it  must  enjoy  a  breath  of  real  literature  !  " 

Mrs.  Sheldam  sat  up  primly,  and  Ermentrude 
was  vastly  amused.  With  a  flash  of  fun  she 
replied  :  — 

,  "  Yes,  America  does,  Monsieur  Keroulan.  We 
have  so  many  Europeans  over  there  now  that  our 
standard  has  fallen  off  from  the  days  of  Emer- 
son and  Whitman.  And  didn't  America  give 
Europe  Poe  ? "  She  knew  that  this  boast  had 
the  ring  of  the  amateur,  but  it  pleased  her  to 
see  how  it  startled  him. 

"  America  is  the  Great  Bribe,"  he  pursued. 
"You  have  no  artists  in  New  York." 

"  Nor  have  we  New  Yorkers,"  the  girl  retorted. 
"  The  original  writing  natives  live  in  Europe." 

He  looked  puzzled,  but  did  not  stop.  "  You 
have  depressed  literature  to  the  point  of  publi- 
cation," he  solemnly  asserted.  This  was  too 
much  and  she  laughed  in  mockery.  Husband 
and  wife  joined  her,  while  Mrs.  Sheldam  trem- 
bled at  the  audacity  of  her  niece  —  whose  irony 
was  as  much  lost  on  her  as  it  was  on  the  poet. 

"  But  you  publish  plays  and  books,  do  you 
not  ? "  Ermentrude  na'fvely  asked. 

Madame  Keroulan  interposed  in  icy  tones :  — 

"  Mademoiselle  Adams  misunderstands.    Mon- 
sieur Keroulan  is  the  Grand  Disdainer.     Like 
his  bosom  friend,  Monsieur  Mallarme,  he  cares 
little  for  the  Philistine  public  —  " 
119 


VISIONARIES 

He  interrupted  her :  "  Lys,  dear  friend,  you 
must  not  bore  Miss  Adams  with  my  theories  of 
art  and  life.  She  has  read  me  —  " 

Ermentrude  gave  him  a  grateful  glance.  He 
seemed,  despite  his  self-consciousness,  a  great 
man  —  how  great  she  could  not  exactly  define, 
His  eyes — two  black  diamonds  full  of  golden 
reflections,  the  eyes  of  a  conqueror,  a  seer  — 
began  to  burn  little  bright  spots  into  her  con- 
sciousness, and,  selfishly,  she  admitted,  she 
wished  the  two  women  would  go  away  and 
leave  her  to  -interrogate  her  idol  in  peace. 
There  were  so  many  things  to  ask  him,  so 
many  difficult  passages  in  The  Golden  Glaze 
and  Hesitations,  above  all  in  that  great  dra- 
matic poem,  The  Voices,  which  she  had  wit- 
nessed in  Paris,  with  its  mystic  atmosphere  of 
pity  and  terror.  She  would  never  forget  her 
complex  feelings,  when  at  a  Paris  theatre,  she 
saw  slowly  file  before  her  in  a  Dream-Masque 
the  wraith-like  figures  of  the  poet,  their  voices 
their  only  corporeal  gift.  Picture  had  dissolved 
into  picture,  and  in  the  vapours  of  these  croon- 
ing enchantments  she  heard  voices  of  various 
timbres  enunciating  in  monosyllables  the  wis- 
dom of  the  ages,  the  poetry  of  the  future.  This 
play  was,  for  her,  and  for  Paris,  too,  the  last 
word  in  dramatic  art,  the  supreme  nuance  of 
beauty.  Everything  had  been  accomplished : 
Shakespeare,  Moliere,  Ibsen ;  yet  here  was  a 
new  evocation,  a  fresh  peep  at  untrodden  paths. 
In  bliss  that  almost  dissolved  her  being,  the 
120 


A  MOCK  SUN 

emotional  American  girl  reached  her  hotel, 
where  she  tried  to  sleep.  When  her  aunt  told 
her  of  the  invitation  tendered  by  the  princess,  a 
rare  one  socially,  she  was  in  the  ninth  heaven 
of  the  Swedenborgians.  Any  place  to  meet 
Octave  Ke"roulan! 

And  now  he  sat  near  her  signalling,  she  knew, 
her  sympathies,  and  as  the  fates  would  have  it 
two  dragons,  her  aunt  and  his  wife,  guarded  the 
gateway  to  the  precious  garden  of  his  imagina- 
tion. She  could  have  cried  aloud  her  chagrin. 
Such  an  inestimable  treasure  was  genius  that  to 
see  it  under  lock  and  key  invited  indignation. 
The  time  was  running  on,  and  her  great  man 
had  said  nothing.  He  could,  if  he  wished,  give 
her  a  million  extraordinary  glimpses  of  the  earth 
and  the  air  and  the  waters  below  them,  for  his 
eyes  were  mirrors  of  his  marvellous  and  many- 
coloured  soul ;  but  what  chance  had  he  with  a 
conjugal  iceberg  on  one  side,  a  cloud  of  smoke  — 
poor  Aunt  Sheldam  —  on  the  other !  She  felt 
in  her  fine,  rhapsodic  way  like  a  young  priestess 
before  the  altar,  ready  to  touch  with  a  live  coal 
the  lips  of  the  gods,  but  withheld  by  a  malig- 
nant power.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life 
Ermentrude  Adams,  delicately  nurtured  in  a 
social  hothouse,  realized  in  wrath  the  major 
tyranny  of  caste. 

The  evening  wore  away.  Mrs.  Sheldam 
aroused  her  husband  as  she  cast  a  horrified 
glance  at  the  classic  prints  he  had  been  study- 
ing. The  princess  dismissed  her  two  impres- 
121 


VISIONARIES 

sionists  and  came  over  to  the  poet.  She,  too 
plainly,  did  not  care  for  his  wife,  and  as  the 
party  broke  up  there  was  a  sense  of  relief, 
though  Ermentrude  could  not  conceal  her  dis- 
satisfaction. Her  joy  was  sincere  when  Madame 
Keroulan  asked  Miss  Adams  and  her  aunt  to 
call.  It  was  slightly  gelid,  the  invitation,  though 
accepted  immediately  by  Ermentrude.  The 
convenances  could  look  out  for  themselves ;  she 
would  not  go  back  to  America  without  an 
interview.  The  princess  raised  her  hand 
mockingly. 

"  What,  I  go  to  one  of  your  conferences !  Not 
I,  cher  pohe.  Keep  your  mysteries  for  your 
youthful  disciples."  She  looked  at  Ermentrude, 
who  did  not  lower  her  eyes  —  she  was  trium- 
phant now.  Perhaps  he  might  say  something 
before  they  parted.  He  did  not,  but  the  prin- 
cess did. 

"  Beware,  young  America,  of  my  Superman  ! 
You  remember  the  story  of  the  ape  with  the 
mirror ! " 

Ermentrude  flushed  with  mortification.  This 
princess  was  decidely  rude  at  times.  But  she 
kept  her  temper  and  thanked  the  lady  for  a 
unique  evening.  Her  exquisite  youth  and  grace 
pleased  the  terrible  old  woman,  who  then  varied 
her  warning. 

"  Beware,"  she  called  out  in  comical  accents  as 
they  slowly  descended  the  naked  marble  stair- 
case, "  of  the  Sleeping  Princess ! " 

The  American  girl  looked  over  her  shoulder. 
122 


A  MOCK  SUN 

"  I  don't  think  your  Superman  has  a  mirror  at 
all." 

"  Yes,  but  his  princess  holds  one  for  him !  " 
was  the  jesting  reply. 

The  carriage  door  slammed.  They  rolled 
homeward,  and  Ermentrude  suffered  from  a 
desperate  sense  of  the  unachieved.  The  prin- 
cess had  been  impertinent,  the  Keroulans  rather 
banal.  Mrs.  Sheldam  watched  her  charge's  face 
in  the  intermittent  lights  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli. 

"  I  think  your  poet  a  bore,"  she  essayed. 
Then  she  shook  her  husband  —  they  had  reached 
their  h6tel. 


II 


It  was  the  garden  of  a  poet,  she  declared,  as, 
with  the  Kdroulans  and  her  aunt,  Ermentrude 
sat  and  slowly  fanned  herself,  watching  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne,  which  foamed  like  a  cascade 
of  green  opposite  this  pretty  little  house  in 
Neuilly.  The  day  was  warm  and  the  drive, 
despite  the  shaded,  watered  avenues,  a  dusty, 
fatiguing  one.  Mrs.  Sheldam  had,  doubtfully, 
it  is  true,  suggested  the  bourgeois  comfort  of 
the  Metropolitan!,  but  she  was  frowned  on  by 
her  enthusiastic  niece.  What!  ride  under- 
ground in  such  weather?  So  they  arrived  at 
the  poet's  not  in  the  best  of  humour,  for  Mrs. 
Sheldam  had  quietly  chidden  her  charge  on  the 
score  of  her  "  flightiness."  These  foreign  ce- 
lebrities were  well  enough  in  their  way,  but — ! 
123 


VISIONARIES 

And  now  Ermentrude,  instead  of  looking  Octave 
Ke>oulan  in  the  face,  preferred  the  vista  of  the 
pale  blue  sky,  awash  with  a  scattered,  fleecy 
white  cloud,  the  rolling  edges  of  which  echoed 
the  dazzling  sunshine.  The  garden  was  not 
large,  its  few  trees  were  of  ample  girth,  and  their 
shadows  most  satisfying  to  eyes  weary  of  the 
city's  bright,  hard  surfaces.  There  were  no 
sentimental  plaster  casts  to  disturb  the  soft  har- 
monies of  this  walled-in  retreat,  and  if  Ermen- 
trude preferred  to  regard  with  obstinacy  unusual 
in  her  mobile  temperament  the  picture  of  Paris 
below  them,  it  was  because  she  felt  that  Ke"rou- 
lan  was  literally  staring  at  her. 

A  few  moments  after  their  arrival  and  with 
the  advent  of  tea,  he  had  accomplished  what 
she  had  fervently  wished  for  the  night  she  had 
met  him  —  he  succeeded,  by  several  easy  moves, 
in  isolating  her  from  her  aunt,  and,  notwith- 
standing her  admiration,  her  desire  to  tap  with 
her  knuckles  the  metal  of  her  idol  and  listen  for 
a  ring  of  hollowness,  she  was  alarmed.  Yet, 
perversely,  she  knew  that  he  would  not  exhibit 
his  paces  before  his  wife  —  naturally  a  disinter- 
ested spectator  —  or  before  her  aunt,  who  was 
hardly  "  intimate  "  enough.  The  long-desired 
hour  found  her  disquieted.  She  did  not  have 
many  moments  to  analyze  these  mixed  emotions, 
for  he  spoke,  and  his  voice  was  agreeably  modu- 
lated. 

"  You,  indeed,  honour  the  poor  poet's  abode 
with  your  youth  and  your  responsive  soul,  Miss 
124 


A  MOCK  SUN 

Adams.  I  thank  you,  though  my  gratitude  will 
seem  as  poor  as  my  hospitality."  She  looked 
at  him  now,  a  little  fluttered.  "You  bring  to 
me  across  seas  the  homage  of  a  fresh  nation,  a 
fresh  nature."  She  beat  a  mental  retreat  at 
these  calm,  confident  phrases ;  what  could  he 
know  of  her  homage  ?  "  And  if  Amiel  has  said, 
*  Un  paysage  est  un  £tat  de  Tame,'  I  may  amend 
it  by  calling  my  soul  a  state  of  landscape,  since 
it  has  been  visited  by  your  image."  This  was 
more  reassuring,  if  exuberant. 

"Man  is  mere  inert  matter  when  born,  but 
his  soul  is  his  own  work.  Hence,  I  assert : 
the  Creator  of  man  is  —  man."  Now  she  felt 
at  ease.  This  wisdom,  hewn  from  the  vast 
quarry  of  his  genius,  she  had  encountered  be- 
fore in  his  Golden  Glaze,  that  book  which  had 
built  temples  of  worship  in  America  wherein 
men  and  women  sought  and  found  the  pabulum 
for  living  beautifully.  He  was  "  talking  "  his 
book.  Why  not  ?  It  was  certainly  delightful 
plagiarism ! 

"  You  know,  dear  young  lady,"  he  continued, 
and  his  eyes,  with  their  contracting  and  expand- 
ing disks,  held  her  attention  like  a  clear  flame, 
"  do  you  know  that  my  plays,  my  books,  are  but 
the  drama  of  my  conscience  exteriorized  ?  Out 
of  the  reservoirs  of  my  soul  I  draw  my  inspira- 
tion. I  have  an  aesthetic  horror  of  evidence; 
like  Renan,  I  loathe  the  deadly  heresy  of  affir- 
mation ;  I  have  the  certitude  of  doubt,  for  are 
we  poets  not  the  lovers  of  the  truth  decorated  ? 
125 


VISIONARIES 

When  I  built  my  lordly  palace  of  art,  it  was  not 
with  the  ugly  durability  of  marble.  No;  like 
the  Mohammedan  who  constructed  his  mosque 
and  mingled  with  the  cement  sweet-smelling 
musk,  so  I  dreamed  my  mosque  into  existence 
with  music  wedded  to  philosophy.  Music  and 
philosophy  are  the  twin  edges  of  my  sword. 
Ah !  you  smile  and  ask,  Where  is  Woman  in 
this  sanctuary?  She  is  not  barred,  I  assure 
you.  My  music  —  is  Woman.  Beauty  is  a 
promise  of  happiness,  Stendhal  says.  I  go 
further  :  Life  —  the  woman  one  has ;  Art  — 
the  woman  one  loves !  " 

She  was  startled.  Her  aunt  and  Madame 
Keroulan  had  retired  to  the  end  of  the  gar- 
den, and  only  a  big  bee,  brumming  overhead, 
was  near.  He  had  arisen  with  the  pontifical 
air  of  a  man  who  has  a  weighty  gospel  to 
expound.  He  encircled  with  his  potent  per- 
sonality the  imagination  of  his  listener ;  the 
hypnotic  quality  of  his  written  word  was  car- 
ried leagues  farther  in  effect  by  his  trained, 
soothing  voice.  Flattered,  no  longer  fright- 
ened, her  nerves  deliciously  assaulted  by  this 
coloured  rhetoric,  Ermentrude  yielded  her  intel- 
lectual assent.  She  did  not  comprehend.  She 
felt  only  the  rhythms  of  his  speech,  as  sound 
swallowed  sense.  He  held  her  captive  with  a 
pause,  and  his  eloquent  eyes  —  they  were  of  an 
extraordinary  lustre  —  completed  the  subjuga- 
tion of  her  will. 

"  Only  kissed  hands  are  white,"  he  murmured. 
126 


A  MOCK  SUN 

and  suddenly  she  felt  a  velvety  kiss  on  her  left 
hand.  Ermentrude  did  not  pretend  to  follow 
the  words  of  her  aunt  and  Madame  K^roulan 
as  they  stopped  before  a  bed  of  June  roses. 
Nor  did  she  remember  how  she  reached  the 
pair.  The  one  vivid  reality  of  her  life  was  the 
cruel  act  of  her  idol.  She  was  not  conscious  of 
blushing,  nor  did  she  feel  that  she  had  grown 
pale.  His  wife  treated  her  with  impartial  in- 
difference, at  times  a  smile  crossing  her  face, 
with  its  implication  —  to  Ermentrude  —  of  selfish 
reserves.  But  this  hateful  smile  cut  her  to  the 
soul  —  one  more  prisoner  at  his  chariot  wheels, 
it  proclaimed!  Ke"roulan  was  as  unconcerned 
as  if  he  had  written  a  poetic  line.  He  had 
expected  more  of  an  outburst,  more  of  a  rebuff ; 
the  absolute  snapping  of  the  web  he  had  spun 
surprised  him.  His  choicest  music  had  been 
spread  for  the  eternal  banquet,  but  the  invited 
one  tarried.  Very  well !  If  not  to-day,  to-mor- 
row! He  repeated  a  verse  of  Verlaine,  and 
with  his  wife  dutifully  at  his  side  bowed  to  the 
two  Americans  and  told  them  of  the  pleasure  ex- 
perienced. Ermentrude,  her  candid  eyes  now 
reproachful  and  suspicious,  did  not  flinch  as  she 
took  his  hand  —  it  seemed  to  melt  in  hers  — 
but  her  farewell  was  conventional.  In  the 
street,  before  they  seated  themselves  in  their 
carriage,  Mrs.  Sheldam  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  my  dear!     What  a  woman!     What  a 
man!     I  have  such  a  story  to  tell  you.     No 
wonder  you  admire  these  people.    The  wife  is 
127 


VISIONARIES 

a  genius  —  isn't  she  handsome  ?  —  but  the  man 
—  he  is  an  angel!  " 

"  I  didn't  see  his  wings,  auntie,"  was  the  curt 
reply. 


Ill 


The  Sheldams  always  stayed  at  the  same 
h6tel  during  their  annual  visits  to  Paris.  It 
was  an  old-fashioned  house  with  an  entrance  in 
the  Rue  Saint-Honor^  and  another  in  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli.  The  girl  sat  on  a  small  balcony  from 
which  she  could  view  the  Tuileries  Gardens 
without  turning  her  head ;  while  looking  farther 
westward  she  saw  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  its 
windy  spaces  a  chessboard  for  rapid  vehicles, 
whose  wheels,  wet  from  the  watered  streets, 
ground  out  silvery  fire  in  the  sun-rays  of  this 
gay  June  ^afternoon.  Where  the  Avenue  des 
Champs  Elysees  began,  a  powdery  haze  envel- 
oped the  equipages,  overblown  with  their  sum- 
mer toilets,  all  speeding  to  Longchamps.  It 
was  racing  day,  and  Ermentrude,  feigning  a 
headache,  had  insisted  that  her  uncle  and  aunt 
go  to  the  meeting.  It  would  amuse  them,  she 
knew,  and  she  wished  to  be  alone.  Nearly  a 
week  had  passed  since  the  visit  to  Neuilly,  and 
she  had  been  afraid  to  ask  her  aunt  what 
Madame  Keroulan  had  imparted  to  her — afraid 
and  also  too  proud.  Her  sensibility  had  been 
grievously  wounded  by  the  plainly  expressed 
feelings  of  Octave  Keroulan.  She  had  re- 
128 


A  MOCK  SUN 

viewed  without  prejudice  his  behaviour,  and 
she  could  not  set  down  to  mere  Latin  gallantry 
either  his  words  or  his  action.  No,  there  was 
too  much  intensity  in  both,  —  ah,  how  she  re- 
belled at  the  brutal  disillusionment !  —  and 
there  were,  she  argued,  method  and  sequence 
in  his  approach  and  attack.  If  she  had  been 
the  average  coquetting  creature,  the  offence 
might  not  have  been  so  mortal.  But,  so  she 
told  herself  again  and  again,  —  as  if  to  frighten 
away  lurking  darker  thoughts,  ready  to  spring 
out  and  devour  her  good  resolutions,  —  she  had 
worshipped  her  idol  with  reservations.  His 
poetry,  his  philosophy,  were  so  inextricably 
blended  that  they  smote  her  nerves  like  the 
impact  of  some  bright  perfume,  some  sharp 
chord  of  modern  music.  Dangerously  she  had 
filed  at  her  emotions  in  the  service  of  culture  and 
she  was  now  paying  the  penalty  for  her  ardent 
confidence.  His  ideas,  vocal  with  golden  mean- 
ings, were  never  meant  to  be  translated  into  the 
vernacular  of  life,  never  to  be  transposed  from 
higher  to  lower  levels ;  this  base  betrayal  of  his 
ideals  she  felt  Keroulan  had  committed.  Had 
he  not  said  that  love  should  be  like  "  un  baiser 
sur  un  miroir"?  Was  he,  after  all,  what  the 
princess  had  called  him  ?  And  was  he  only  a 
mock  sun  swimming  in  a  firmament  of  glories 
which  he  could  have  outshone  ? 

A  servant   knocked  and,  not  receiving  a  re- 
sponse, entered  with  a  letter.     The  superscrip- 
tion was  strange.     She  opened  and  read  :  — 
1 29 


VISIONARIES 

DEAR  AND  TENDER  CHILD  :  I  know  you  were  angry 
with  me  when  we  parted.  I  am  awaiting  here  below 
your  answer  to  come  to  you  and  bare  my  heart.  Say 
yes ! 

"  Is  the  gentleman  downstairs  ? "  she  asked. 
The  servant  bowed.  The  blood  in  her  head 
buzzing,  she  nodded,  and  the  man  disappeared. 
Standing  there  in  the  bright  summer  light,  Er- 
mentrude  Adams  saw  her  face  in  the  oval  glass, 
above  the  fireplace,  saw  its  pallor,  the  strained 
expression  of  the  eyes,  and  like  a  drowning 
person  she  made  a  swift  inventory  of  her  life, 
and,  with  the  insane  hope  of  one  about  to  be 
swallowed  up  by  the  waters,  she  grasped  at  a 
solitary  straw.  Let  him  come ;  she  would  have 
an  explanation  from  him  !  The  torture  of  doubt 
might  then  be  brought  to  an  end.  .  .  . 

Some  one  glided  into  the  apartment.  Turn- 
ing quickly,  Ermentrude  recognized  Madame 
Keroulan.  Before  she  could  orient  herself 
that  lady  took  her  by  both  hands,  and  uttering 
apologetic  words,  forced  the  amazed  girl  into 
a  chair. 

"Don't  be  frightened,  dear  young  lady.  I 
am  not  here  to  judge,  but  to  explain.  Yes,  I 
know  my  husband  loves  you.  But  do  not  be- 
lieve in  him.  He  is  a  terrific  man."  This  word 
she  emphasized  as  if  doubtful  of  its  meaning. 
"  Ah,  if  you  but  knew  the  inferno  of  my  exist- 
ence !  There  are  so  many  like  you  —  stop,  do 
not  leave !  You  are  not  to  blame.  I,  Lillias 
Ke"roulan,  do  not  censure  your  action.  My  hus- 

130 


A  MOCK  SUN 

band  is  an  evil  man  and  a  charlatan.  Hear  me 
out !  He  has  only  the  gift  of  words.  He  steals 
all  his  profundities  of  art  from  dead  philoso- 
phers. He  is  not  a  genuine  poet.  He  is  not  a 
dramatist.  I  swear  to  you  that  he  is  now  the 
butt  of  artistic  Paris.  The  Princesse  de  Lan- 
covani  made  him  —  she  is  another  of  his  sort 
He  was  the  mode ;  now  he  is  desperate  because 
his  day  has  passed.  He  knows  you  are  rich. 
He  desires  your  money,  not  you.  I  discovered 
that  he  was  coming  here  this  day.  Oh,  I  am 
cleverer  than  he.  I  followed.  Here  I  am  to 
save  you  from  him  —  and  from  yourself  —  he 
is  not  now  below  in  the  salon." 

"  Please  go  away  !  "  indignantly  answered 
Ermentrude.  She  was  furious  at  this  horrible, 
plain-spoken,  jealous  creature.  Save  her  from 
herself  —  as  if  ever  she  had  wavered  !  The  dis- 
interested adoration  she  had  entertained  for  the 
great  artist  —  what  a  hideous  ending  was  this ! 
The  tall,  blond  woman  with  the  narrow,  light 
blue  eyes  watched  the  girl.  How  could  any  one 
call  her  handsome,  Ermentrude  wondered !  Then 
her  visitor  noticed  the  crumpled  letter  on  the 
table.  With  a  gesture  of  triumph  she  secured 
it  and  smiling  her  superior  smile  she  left,  clos- 
ing the  door  softly  behind  her. 

Only  kissed  hands  are  white !  Ermentrude 
threw  herself  on  the  couch,  her  cheeks  burning, 
her  heart  tugging  in  her  bosom  like  a  ship  im- 
patient at  its  anchorage.  And  was  this  the  sor 
did  end  of  a  beautiful  dream  ?  .  .  . 


VISIONARIES 

"Do  you  know,  dearest,  we  have  had  such 
news  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sheldam  as  she  entered, 
and  so  charged  with  her  happiness  that  she 
did  not  notice  the  drawn  features  of  her  niece. 
"Charlie,  Charlie  will  be  here  some  time  next 
week.  He  arrives  at  Havre.  He  has  just 
cabled  his  father.  Let  us  go  down  to  meet  the 
boy."  Charlie  was  the  only  son  of  the  Sheldams 
and  fonder  of  his  cousin  than  she  dare  tell  her- 
self. She  burst  into  tears,  which  greatly  pleased 
her  aunt. 

In  the  train,  eight  days  later,  Ermentrude  sat 
speechless  in  company  with  her  aunt  and  uncle. 
But  as  the  train  approached  Havre  she  remem- 
bered something. 

"Aunt  Clara,"  she  bravely  asked,  "do  you 
recall  the  afternoon  we  spent  at  the  Ke"roulans'  ? 
What  did  Madame  Keroulan  tell  you  then? 
Is  it  a  secret?"  She  held  tightly  clenched 
in  her  hand  the  arm-rest  at  the  side  of  the 
compartment. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no !  The  madame  was  very  chatty, 
very  communicative.  It's  funny  I've  not  told  you 
before.  She  confessed  that  she  was  the  happiest 
woman  on  earth ;  not  only  was  she  married  to  a 
grand  genius,  —  for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  see 
where  that  comes  in !  —  but  he  was  a  good  man 
into  the  bargain.  It  appears  that  his  life  is  made 
weary  by  women  who  pester  him  with  their  at- 
tentions. Even  our  princess  —  yes,  the  princess ; 
isn't  it  shocking  ?  —  was  a  perfect  nuisance  until 
Mr.  Keroulan  assured  her  that,  though  he  owed 
132 

I 


A  MOCK  SUN 

much  of  his  success  in  the  world  to  her,  yet  he 
would  never  betray  the  trust  reposed  in  him  by 
his  wife.  What's  the  matter,  dear,  does  the 
motion  of  the  car  affect  you  ?  It  does  rock ! 
And  he  shows  her  all  the  letters  he  gets  from 
silly  women  admirers  —  oh,  these  foreign  women 
and  their  queer  ways  !  And  he  tells  her  the  way 
they  make  up  to  him  when  he  meets  them  in 
society." 

Ermentrude  shivered.  The  princess  also! 
And  with  all  her  warning  about  the  Super- 
man! Now  she  understood.  Then  she  took 
the  hand  of  Mrs.  Sheldam,  and,  stroking  it, 
whispered :  — 

"Auntie,  I'm  so  glad  I  am  going  to  Havre, 
going  to  see  Charlie  soon."  The  lids  of  her 
eyes  were  wet.  Mrs.  Sheldam  had  never  been 
so  motherly. 

"You  are  a  darling!"  she  answered,  as  she 
squeezed  Ermentrude's  arm.  "  But  there,  is 
some  one  who  doesn't  seem  to  care  much  for 
Havre."  She  pointed  out  Mr.  Sheldam,  who, 
oblivious  of  picturesque  Normandy  through 
which  the  train  was  speeding,  slept  serenely. 
Ermentrude  envied  him  his  repose.  He  had 
never  stared  into  the  maddening  mirror  which 
turned  poets  into  Supermen  and  —  sometimes 
monsters.  Had  she  herself  not  gazed  into  this 
distorting  glass  ?  The  tune  of  her  life  had  never 
sounded  so  discouragingly  faint  and  inutile. 
Perhaps  she  did  not  posses  the  higher  quali- 
ties that  could  extort  from  a  nature  so  rich  and 


VISIONARIES 

various  as  Octave  Ke>oulan's  its  noblest  music ! 
Perhaps  his  wife  had  told  the  truth  to  Mrs. 
Sheldam  and  had  lied  to  her!  And  then, 
through  a  merciful  mist  of  tears,  Ermentrude 
saw  Havre,  saw  her  future. 


VII 

ANTICHRIST 

To  wring  from  man's  tongue  the  denial  of  his  existence 
is  proof  of  Satan's  greatest  power.  —  P&RE  RAVIGNAN. 

THE  most  learned  man  and  the  most  lovable 
it  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  know  is  Mon- 
signor  Anatole  O'Bourke — alas  !  I  should  write, 
was,  for  his  noble  soul  is  gathered  to  God.  I  met 
him  in  Paris,  when  I  was  a  music  student.  He 
sat  next  to  me  at  a  Pasdeloup  concert  in  the 
Cirque  d'Hiver,  how  many  years  ago  I  do  not 
care  to  say.  A  casual  exclamation  betrayed  my 
nationality,  and  during  the  intermission  we  drifted 
into  easy  conversation.  Within  five  minutes  he 
held  me  enthralled,  did  this  big-souled,  large- 
brained  Irishman  from  the  County  Tipperary. 
We  discussed  the  programme  —  a  new  sym- 
phonic poem  by  Rimski-Korsakoff,  Sadko,  had 
been  alternately  hissed  and  cheered  —  and  I 
soon  learned  that  my  companion  mourned  a 
French  mother  and  rejoiced  in  the  loving  pres- 
ence of  a  very  Celtic  father.  From  the  former 
he  must  have  inherited  his  vigorous,  logical  in- 
tellect; the  latter  had  evidently  endowed  him 
with  a  robust,  jovial  temperament,  coupled  with 
a  wonderful  perception  of  things  mystical. 


VISIONARIES 

After  the  concert  we  walked  slowly  along  the 
line  of  the  boulevard*.  It  was  early  May,  and 
the  wheel  of  green  which  we  traversed,  together 
with  the  brilliant^  picture  made  by  the  crowds, 
put  us  both  in  a  happy  temper.  It  was  not 
long  before  Monsignor  heard  the  confession  of 
my  ideals.  He  smiled  quickly  when  I  raved  of 
music,  but  the  moment  I  drifted  into  the  theme 
of  mysticism  —  the  transposition  is  ever  an  easy 
one  —  I  saw  his  interest  leap  to  meet  mine. 

"  So,  you  have  read  St.  John  of  the  Cross  ? " 
I  nodded  my  head. 

"  And  St.  Teresa,  that  marvellous  woman  ? 
The  Americans  puzzle  me,"  he  continued. 
"You  are  the  most  practical  people  on  the 
globe  and  yet  the  most  idealistic.  When  I  hear 
of  a  new  religion,  I  am  morally  certain  that  it  is 
evolved  in  America." 

"A  new  religion!"  I  started.  This  phrase 
had  often  assailed  me,  both  in  print  and  in  the 
depths  of  my  imagination.  He  divined  my 
thought  —  ah !  he  was  a  wonder-worker  in  the 
way  he  noted  a  passing  nuance. 

"When  we  wear  out  the  old  one,  it  will  be 
time  for  a  new  religion,"  he  blandly  announced ; 
"  you  Americans,  because  of  your  new  mechani- 
cal inventions,  fancy  you  have  free  entry  into 
the  domain  of  the  spiritual.  But  come,  my  dear 
young  friend.  Here  is  my  hotel.  Can't  I  invite 
you  to  dinner?"  We  had  reached  the  Boule- 
vard Malsherbe  and,  as  I  was  miles  out  of  my 
course,  I  consented.  The  priest  fascinated  me 

136 


ANTICHRIST 

with  his  erudition,  which  swam  lightly  on  the 
crest  of  his  talk.  He  was,  so  I  discovered  dur- 
ing the  evening,  particularly  well  versed  in  the 
mystical  writers,  in  the  writings  of  the  Kabbal- 
ists  and  the  books  of  the  inspired  Northman, 
Swedenborg.  As  we  sat  drinking  our  coffee  at 
one  of  the  little  tables  in  the  spacious  courtyard, 
I  revived  the  motive  of  a  new  religion. 

"  Monsignor,  have  you  ever  speculated  on  the 
possible  appearance  of  a  second  Mahomet,  a  sec- 
ond Buddha  ?  What  if,  from  some  Asiatic  j  ungle, 
there  sallied  out  upon  Europe  a  terrible  ape- 
god,  a  Mongolian  with  exotic  eyes  and  the  mag- 
netism of  a  religious  madman  —  " 

"  You  are  speaking  of  Antichrist  ? "  he  calmly 
questioned. 

"Antichrist!  Do  you  really  believe  in  the 
Devil's  Messiah  ? " 

"  Believe,  man !  why,  I  have  seen  him." 

I  leaned  back  in  my  chair,  wondering  whether 
I  should  laugh  or  look  solemn.  He  noted  my 
indecision,  and  his  eyes  twinkled  —  they  were 
the  blue-gray  of  the  Irish,  the  eyes  of  a  seer  or 
an  amiable  ironist. 

"  Listen !  but  first  let  us  get  some  strong 
cigars.  Gargon ! "  As  we  smoked  our  pana- 
telas  he  related  this  history:  — 

"You  ask  me  if  I  believe  in  an  Antichrist, 

thereby  betraying   your   slender  knowledge  of 

the  Scriptures  —  you   will  pardon  the  liberty! 

I  may  refer  you  not  only  to  John's  Epistles,  to 

137 


VISIONARIES 

the  revelations  of  the  dreamer  of  Patmos,  but 
to  so  many  learned  doctors  of  the  faith  that  it 
would  take  a  week  merely  to  enumerate  the 
titles  of  their  works  all  bearing  on  the  mysterious 
subject.  Our  Holy  Mother  the  Church  has 
held  aloof  from  any  doctrinal  pronouncements. 
The  Antichrist  has  been  predicted  for  the  past 
thousand  years.  I  recall  as  a  boy  poring  over 
the  map  of  the  world  which  a  friend  of  my 
mother  had  left  with  her.  This  lady  my  father 
called  '  the  angel  with  the  moulting  wings,'  be- 
cause she  was  always  in  an  ecstatic  tremor  over 
the  second  coming  of  the  Messiah.  She  would 
go  to  the  housetop  at  least  once  every  six  months, 
and  there,  with  a  band  of  pious  deluded  geese 
dressed  in  white  flowing  robes,  would  inspect 
the  firmament  for  favourable  signs.  Nothing 
ever  happened,  as  we  know,  yet  the  predictions 
sown  about  the  borders  of  that  strange-looking 
chart  have  in  a  measure  come  true. 

"  There  were  the  grimmest  and  most  resound- 
ing quotations  from  the  Apocalypse.  *  Babylon 
is  fallen,  is  fallen ! '  hummed  in  my  ears  for 
many  a  day.  And  the  pale  horse  also  haunted 
me.  What  would  I  have  given  to  hear  the 
music  of  that  'voice  from  heaven,  as  the  voice 
of  many  waters,  and  as  the  voice  of  great  thun- 
der.' I  mean  the  '  harpers  harping  with  their 
harps  '  the  '  new  song  before  the  throne,  before 
the  four  beasts  and  the  elders.'  It  is  recorded 
that  '  no  man  could  learn  that  song  but  the  hun- 
dred and  forty  and  four  thousand,  which  were 

138 


ANTICHRIST 

redeemed  from  the  earth.'  That  is  a  goodly 
multitude.  Let  us  hope  we  shall  be  of  it. 
Learned  Sir  Thomas  Browne  asked  what  songs 
the  sirens  sang.  I  prefer  to  hear  that  wonder- 
ful '  harped '  song. 

"  But  I  wander.  The  fault  lies  in  that  won- 
drous map  of  the  world,  with  its  pictured  hordes 
of  Russians  sweeping  down  upon  Europe  and 
America  like  a  plague  of  locusts,  the  wicked 
unbaptized  Antichrist  at  the  head  of  them,  wav- 
ing a  cross  held  in  reversed  fashion.  Don't  ask 
me  the  meaning  of  this  crazy  symbolism.  The 
sect  to  which  my  mother's  friend  belonged  — 
God  bless  her,  for  she  was  a  dear  weak-minded 
lady  —  must  have  set  great  store  by  these  signs. 
I  admit  that  as  a  boy  they  scared  me.  Sitting 
here  now,  after  forty  years,  I  can  still  see  those 
cryptograms.  However,  to  my  tale.  About 
ten  years  ago  I  was  in  Paris,  and  in  my  capacity 
as  Monsignor  I  had  to  attend  a  significant  gath- 
ering at  the  embassy  of  the  Russian  ambassador 
in  this  city  of  light."  He  waved  his  left  hand, 
from  which  I  caught  the  purple  fire  of  amethyst. 

"  It  was  a  notable  affair,  and  I  don't  mind 
telling  you  now  that  it  was  largely  political.  I 
had  just  returned  from  a  secret  mission  at  Rome, 
and  I  was  forced  to  mingle  with  diplomatic  peo- 
ple. Prince  Wronsky  was  the  representative 
of  the  Czar  at  that  time  in  France,  a  charming 
man  with  a  flavour  of  diablerie  in  his  speech. 
He  was  a  fervent  Greek  Catholic,  like  most  of 
his  countrymen,  and  it  pleased  him  to  fence  mis- 

139 


VISIONARIES 

chievously  with  me  on  the  various  dogmas  of 
our  respective  faiths.  He  called  himself  the 
Catholic ;  I  was  only  a  Roman  Catholic.  I  told 
him  I  was  satisfied. 

"  On  this  particular  night  he  was  rather  agi- 
tated when  I  made  my  salutations.  He  whis- 
pered to  me  that  madame  the  princess  had  that 
very  day  presented  him  with  a  son  and  heir. 
Naturally  I  congratulated  him.  His  restless- 
ness increased  as  the  evening  wore  on.  At  last 
he  beckoned  to  me  —  we  were  very  old  friends 
—  to  follow  him  into  his  library.  There  he 
hesitated. 

"  *  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  favour,  an  odd  one  ; 
but  as  you  are  known  to  me  so  long  I  venture 
to  ask  it.  Do  go  upstairs  and  see  my  boy  — ' 
His  tone  was  that  of  entreaty.  I  smiled. 

"  *  Dear  prince,  I  am,  as  a  priest,  hardly  a 
judge  of  children.  But  if  you  wish  it  —  is  there 
anything  wrong  with  the  little  chap's  health  ? ' 

"  *  God  forbid ! '  he  ejaculated  and  piously 
crossed  himself.  We  went  to  the  first  ttage 
of  his  palace  —  he  was  gorgeously  housed  — 
and  there  he  said :  — 

"  *  Madame  is  in  another  wing  of  our  apart- 
ments— go  in  here  —  the  child  is  attended  by 
the  nurse.'  With  that  he  pushed  me  through  a 
swinging  door  and  left  me  standing  in  a  semi- 
lighted  chamber.  I  was  very  near  ill  temper,  I 
assure  you,  for  my  position  was  embarrassing. 
The  room  was  large  and  heavily  hung  with 
tapestries.  A  nurse,  a  hag,  a  witch,  a  dark  old 
140 


ANTICHRIST 

gypsy  creature,  came  over  to  me  and  asked  me, 
in  Russian :  — 

" '  Do  you  wish  to  see  his  Royal  Highness  the 
King  of  Earth  and  Heaven  ? '  Thinking  she 
was  some  stupid  moujik's  wife,  I  nodded  my 
head  seriously,  though  amused  by  the  exalted 
titles.  She  put  up  a  thin  hand  and  I  tiptoed  to 
a  cradle  of  gold  and  ivory  —  it  certainly  seemed 
so  to  my  inexperienced  eyes  —  the  nurse  parted 
the  curtains,  and  there  I  saw  —  I  saw  —  but  my 
son,  you  will  think  I  exaggerate  —  I  saw  the 
most  exquisite  baby  in  the  universe.  You  laugh  at 
an  old  bachelor's  rhapsody!  In  reality^ I  don't 
care  much  for  children.  But  that  child,  that 
supreme  morsel  of  humanity,  was  too  much 
for  me.  I  stood  and  stared  and  stood  and 
stared,  and  all  the  while  the  tiny  angel  was 
smiling  in  my  eyes,  oh !  such  a  celestial  smile. 
From  his  large  blue  eyes,  like  flowers,  he  smiled 
into  my  very  soul.  I  was  chained  to  the  floor 
as  if  by  lead.  Every  fibre  of  my  soul,  heart,  and 
brain  went  out  to  that  little  wanderer  from  the 
infinite.  It  was  a  pathetic  face,  full  of  sup- 
pressed sorrow  —  Dieu  !  but  he  was  older  than 
his  father.  I  found  my  mind  beginning  to 
wander  as  if  hypnotized.  I  tried  to  divert  my 
gaze,  but  in  vain.  Some  subtle  emanation  from 
this  extraordinary  child  entered  my  being,  and 
then,  as  if  a  curtain  were  being  slowly  lowered, 
a  mist  encompassed  my  soul ;  I  was  ceding,  I 
felt,  the  immortal  part  of  me  to  another,  and  all 
the  time  I  was  smiling  at  the  baby  and  the  baby 
141 


VISIONARIES 

smiling  back.  I  remember  his  long  blond  hair, 
parted  in  the  middle  and  falling  over  his  shoul- 
ders ;  but  even  that  remarkable  trait  for  an  in- 
fant a  few  hours  old  did  not  puzzle  me,  for  my 
sanity  was  surely  being  undermined  by  the  per- 
sistent gaze  of  the  boy.  I  vaguely  recall  passing 
my  harid  across  my  breast  as  if  to  stop  the  crevice 
through  which  my  personality  was  filtering;  I 
was  certain  that  my  soul  was  about  to  be  stolen 
by  that  damnable  child.  Then  the  nurse  dropped 
something,  and  my  thoughts  came  back, — they 
were  surely  on  the  road  to  hell,  for  they  were  red 
and  flaming  when  I  got  hold  of  them,  —  and  the 
spell,  or  whatever  it  was,  snapped. 

"  I  looked  up  and  noticed  the  woman  mali- 
ciously smiling  —  if  it  had  been  in  the  days  of 
the  inquisition,  I  would  have  sent  her  to  the 
faggots,  for  she  was  a  hell-hag.  The  child  had 
fallen  back  in  his  cradle  as  if  the  effort  of  hold- 
ing my  attention  had  exhausted  him.  Then  it 
struck  me  that  there  was  something  unholy  about 
this  affair,  and  I  resolutely  strode  to  the  crib  and 
seized  the  baby. 

"'What  changeling  is  this?'  I  demanded  in 
a  loud  voice,  for  the  being  that  twisted  in  my 
grip  was  two  or  two  hundred  years  old. 

"'Lay  him  down,  you  monster ! '  clamoured  the 
nurse,  as  I  held  the  squirming  bundle  by  both 
hands.  It  was  a  task  —  and  I'm  very  strong. 
A  superhuman  strength  waged  against  my  mus- 
cles ;  but  I  was  an  old  football  half-back  at  the 
university,  so  I  conquered  the  poor  little  devil. 
142 


ANTICHRIST 

It  moaned  like  a  querulous  old  man ;  the  nurse, 
throwing  her  weight  upon  me,  forced  me  to  let 
go  my  hold.  As  I  did  so  the  baby  turned  on 
its  face,  its  dainty  robe  split  wide  open,  and  to 
my  horror  I  saw  on  its  back,  between  its  angel- 
ically white  shoulders,  burnt  in  as  if  by  branding 
irons,  the  crucifix  —  and  upside  down  !  " 

I  shuddered.     I  knew.     He  lowered  his  voice 
and  spoke  in  detached  phrases. 

"  It  was  —  oh  !  that  I  live  to  say  it  —  it  was 
the  dreaded  Antichrist  —  yes,  this  Russian  baby 
—  it  was  predicted  that  he  would  be  born  in 
Russia  —  I  trembled  so  that  my  robes  waved 
in  an  invisible  wind.  The  reversed  cross  —  the 
mark  of  the  beast  —  the  sign  by  which  we  are 
to  know  the  Human  Satan  — the  last  opponent 
of  Christianity.  I  confess  that  I  was  discom- 
posed at  the  sight  of  this  little  fiend,  for  it 
meant  that  the  red  star,  the  baleful  star  of  the 
north,  would  rise  in  the  black  heavens  and  bloody 
war  spread  among  the  nations  of  the  earth.  It 
also  meant  that  doomsday  was  not  far  off,  and, 
good  Christian  as  I  believe  myself  to  be,  a  shiver 
ran  down  my  spine  at  the  idea  of  Gabriel's 
trump  and  the  resurrection  of  the  dead.  Yes, 
I  shan't  deny  it  —  so  material  are  the  sons  of 
men,  I  among  them !  And  the  very  thought  of 
Judgment  Day  and  its  blasting  horrors  withered 
my  heart.  Still  something  had  to  be  done,  proph- 
ecy or  no  prophecy.  To  fulfil  the  letter  of  the 
law  this  infernal  visitor  was  let  loose  from  hell. 
There  was  one  way,  so  I  grasped  —  " 
143 


VISIONARIES 

"  Great  God,  Monsignor,  you  didn't  strangle 
the  demon?"  I  cried. 

"  No,  no  —  something  better.  I  rushed  over 
to  a  marble  wash-basin  and  seized  a  ewer  of 
water,  and,  going  back  to  the  crib,  despite  the 
frantic  remonstrances  of  the  old  sorceress,  I 
baptized  the  Antichrist  in  the  name  of  the 
Father,  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 
Before  my  eyes  I  saw  the  inverted  cross  van- 
ish. Then  I  soundly  spanked  the  presumptuous 
youngster  and,  running  down  the  staircase,  I 
sought  the  prince  and  said  to  him:  — 

" '  Your  boy  is  now  a  Roman,  not  a  Greek 
Catholic.  We  are  quits ! '  " 

The  idea  of  a  spanked  Antichrist  disconso- 
lately roaming  the  earth,  unwilling  to  return  to 
his  fiery  home  for  fear  of  a  scolding,  his  guns 
of  evil  spiked,  his  virus  innocuous,  his  mission 
of  spiritual  destruction  a  failure  — for  what  could 
a  baptized  devil's  child  do  but  pray  and  repent  ? 
—  all  this  dawned  upon  me,  and  I  burst  into 
laughter,  the  worthy  Monsignor  discreetly  par- 
ticipating. His  bizarre  recital  proved  to  me  that, 
despite  his  Gallic  first  name,  Monsignor  Anatole 
O'Bourke  hailed  from  the  County  Tipperary. 


144 


VIII 
THE   ETERNAL  DUEL 

What  is  the  sorriest  thing  that  enters  Hell  ? 

—  D.  G.  ROSSETTI,  Vain  Virtues. 

THE  face  set  him  to  a  strange  wondering ;  he 
sat  at  the  coffin  and  watched  it.  His  wife's  face 
it  was,  and  above  the  sorrow  of  irrevocable  part- 
ing floated  the  thought  that  she  did  not  look 
happy  as  she  lay  in  her  bed  of  death.  Monross 
had  seen  but  two  dead  faces  before,  those  of  his 
father  and  mother.  Both  had  worn  upon  the 
mask  which  death  models  an  expression  of 
relief.  But  this  face,  the  face  of  his  wife,  of 
the  woman  with  whom  he  had  lived  —  how 
many  years !  He  asked  himself  why  he  shud- 
dered when  he  looked  down  at  it,  shuddered  and 
also  flushed  with  indignation.  Had  she  ever 
been  happy  ?  How  many  times  had  she  not 
voiced  her  feelings  in  the  unequivocal  language 
of  love  !  Yet  she  seemed  so  hideously  unhappy 
as  she  stretched  before  him  in  her  white  robes  of 
death.  Why  ?  What  secret  was  this  disclosed 
at  the  twelfth  hour  of  life,  on  the  very  brink  of 
the  grave  ?  Did  death,  then,  hold  the  solution 
to  the  enigma  of  the  conquering  Sphinx ! 

Monross,  master  of  psychology,  tormented  by 


VISIONARIES 

visions  of  perfection,  a  victim  to  the  devouring 
illusion  of  the  artist,  —  Monross  asked  himself 
with  chagrin  if  he  had  missed  the  key  in  which 
had  sounded  the  symphony  of  this  woman's  life. 
This  woman !  His  wife !  A  female  creature, 
long-haired,  smiling,  loquacious  —  though  reti- 
cent enough  when  her  real  self  should  have 
flashed  out  signals  of  recognition  at  him  —  this 
wife,  the  Rhoda  he  had  called  day  and  night  — 
what  had  she  been  ? 

She  had  understood  him,  had  realized  his  no- 
bility of  ideal,  his  gifts,  his  occasional  grandeur 
of  soul,  —  like  all  artistic  men  he  was  desultory 
in  the  manifestation  of  his  talent,  —  and  had  read 
aloud  to  him  those  poems  written  for  another 
woman  in  the  pitch-hot  passion  of  his  youth  — 
before  he  had  met  her.  To  her  he  had  been 
always,  so  he  told  himself,  a  cavalier  in  his  de- 
votion. Without  wealth,  he  had  kept  the  soles 
of  her  little  feet  from  touching  the  sidewalks  of 
life.  Upon  her  dainty  person  he  had  draped 
lovely  garments.  Why  then,  he  wondered,  the 
vindictive  expression  etched,  as  if  in  aqua  fortis, 
upon  her  carved  features  ? 

Some  Old  World  superstition  held  him  captive 
as  he  gazed.  Death  is  the  grand  revealer,  he 
thought ;  death  alone  stamps  upon  the  crumbling 
canvas  of  mortality  the  truth.  Rhoda  was  dead. 
Yet  her  face  was  alive  for  the  first  time.  He 
saw  its  truth ;  and  he  shuddered,  for  he  also  dis 
cerned  the  hate  that  had  lurked  a  life  long  in  its 
devious  and  smiling  expressions  —  expressions 
146 


THE  ETERNAL   DUEL 

like  a  set  of  scenery  pushed  on  and  off  as  the 
order  of  the  play  demanded.  Oh,  the  mis- 
ery of  it  all !  He,  Monross,  poet,  lover,  egoist, 
husband,  to  be  confronted  by  this  damnable 
defiance,  this  early-born  hate!  What  had  he 
done !  And  in  the  brain  cells  of  the  man  there 
awakened  a  processional  fleet  of  pictures :  Rhoda 
wooed;  Rhoda  dazzled;  Rhoda  won?  Rhoda 
smiling  before  the  altar ;  Rhoda  resigned  upon 
that  other  altar;  Rhoda,  wife,  mother;  and 
Rhoda  —  dead ! 

But  Rhoda  loved  —  again  he  looked  at  the 
face.  The  brow  was  virginally  placid,  the  droop- 
ing, bitter  mouth  alone  telling  the  unhappy  hus- 
band a  story  he  had  never  before  suspected. 
Rhoda!  Was  it  possible  this  tiny  exquisite 
creature  had  harboured  rancour  in  her  soul  for 
the  man  who  had  adored  her  because  she  had 
adored  him  ?  Rhoda !  The  shell  of  his  egoism 
fell  away  from  him.  He  saw  the  implacable 
resentment  of  this  tender  girl  who,  her  married 
life  long,  had  loathed  the  captain  that  had  in- 
vaded the  citadel  of  her  soul,  and  conqueror-like 
had  filched  her  virgin  zone.  The  woman  seem- 
ingly stared  at  the  man  through  lids  closed  in 
death  —  the  woman,  the  sex  that  ages  ago  had 
feared  the  barbarian  who  dragged  her  to  his 
cave,  where  he  subdued  her,  making  her  bake 
his  bread  and  bear  his  children. 

In  a  wide  heaven  of  surmise  Monross  read 
the  confirmation  of  his  suspicions  —  of  the  eter- 
nal duel  between  the  man  and  the  woman ;  knew 

-"47 


VISIONARIES 

that  Rhoda  hated  him  most  when  most  she  trem- 
bled at  his  master  bidding.  And  now  Rhoda 
lay  dead  in  her  lyre-shaped  coffin,  saying  these 
ironic  things  to  her  husband,  when  it  was  too 
late  for  repentance,  too  early  for  eternity. 


148 


IX 

THE   ENCHANTED   YODLER 

A  MARIENBAD   ELEGY 

I 

THE  remorseless  rain  had  washed  anew  the 
face  of  the  dark  blue  sky  that  domed  Marien- 
bad  and  its  curved  chain  of  hills.  Hugh  Krayne 
threw  open  his  window  and,  leaning  out,  ex- 
claimed, as  he  eagerly  inhaled  the  soft  air  of  an 
early  May  morning :  — 

"  At  last !  And  high  time !  "  For  nine  days 
he  had  waded  through  the  wet  streets,  heavily 
leaping  the  raging  gutters  and  stopping  before 
the  door  of  every  optician  to  scrutinize  the  ba- 
rometer. And  there  are  many  in  this  pretty 
Bohemian  health  resort,  where  bad  weather 
means  bad  temper,  with  enforced  confinement  in 
dismal  lodgings  or  stuffy  restaurations,  or  —  last 
resort  of  the  bored  —  the  promenade  under  the 
colonnade,  while  the  band  plays  as  human  be- 
ings shuffle  ponderously  over  the  cold  stones 
and  stare  at  each  other  in  sullen  desperation. 

But  this  day  was  a  glorious  one;  in  high 
spirits  the  Englishman  left  the  house  on  the 
Oberkreuzbrunnenstrasse  and  moved  slowly  to- 

149 


VISIONARIES 

ward  the  springs.  He  was  not  thirty,  but  looked 
much  older,  for  his  weight  was  excessive.  An 
easy-going  temperament,  a  good  appetite,  a  well- 
filled  purse,  and  a  conscience  that  never  dis- 
turbed his  night's  slumber  contributed  to  this 
making  of  flesh.  He  waddled,  despite  his  great 
height,  and  was  sufficiently  sensitive  to  enjoy 
Marienbad  as  much  for  its  fat  visitors  as  for  its 
curative  virtues.  Here  at  least  he  was  not  re- 
markable, while  in  London  or  Paris  people 
looked  at  him  sourly  when  he  occupied  a  stall 
at  the  theatre  or  a  seat  in  a  cafe.  Not  only  had 
he  elbow  room  in  Marienbad,  but  he  felt  small, 
positively  meagre,  in  comparison  with  the  prize 
specimens  he  saw  painfully  progressing  about 
the  shaded  walks  or  puffing  like  obese  engines 
up  the  sloping  roads  to  the  Rubezahl,  the  Eger- 
lander,  the  Panorama,  or  the  distant  Podhorn. 

The  park  of  the  Kreuzbrunnen  was  crowded, 
though  the  hour  of  six  had  just  been  signalled 
from  a  dozen  clocks  in  the  vicinity.  The  crowd, 
gathered  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe, 
was  in  holiday  humour,  as,  glass  in  hand,  it 
fell  into  line,  until  each  received  the  water 
doled  out  by  uniformed  officials.  Occasionally 
a  dispute  as  to  precedence  would  take  place 
when  the  serpentine  procession  filed  up  the 
steps  of  the  old-fashioned  belvedere ;  but  quar- 
rels were  as  rare  as  a  lean  man.  A  fat  crowd  is 
always  good-tempered,  irritable  as  may  be  its 
individual  members.  Hugh  Krayne  kept  in 
position,  while  two  women  shoved  him  about  as 

150 


THE  ENCHANTED  YODLER 

if  he  were  a  bale  of  hay.  He  heard  them  abus- 
ing him  in  Bohemian,  a  language  of  which  he 
did  not  know  more  than  a  few  words ;  their  in- 
tonations told  him  that  they  heartily  disliked  his 
presence.  Yet  he  could  not  give  way ;  it  would 
not  have  been  Marienbad  etiquette.  At  last  he 
reached  the  spring  and  received  his  usual  low 
bow  from  the  man  who  turned  the  polished 
wheel  —  the  fellow  had  an  eye  tuned  for  gratui- 
ties. With  the  water  in  his  glass  three-fourths 
cold  and  one-fourth  warm,  a  small  napkin  in  his 
left  hand,  the  Englishman  moved  with  the  jaunty 
grace  of  a  young  elephant  down  the  smooth  ter- 
raced esplanade  that  has  made  Marienbad  so 
celebrated.  The  sun  was  riding  high,  and  the 
tender  green  of  the  trees,  the  flashing  of  the 
fountains,  and  the  music  of  the  band  all  caused 
Hugh  to  feel  happy.  He  had  lost  nearly  a 
pound  since  his  arrival  the  week  before,  and  he 
had  three  more  weeks  to  stay.  What  might  not 
happen ! 

Just  where  the  promenade  twists  under  the 
shaded  alleys  that  lead  to  the  Ferdinandsbrunnen, 
he  saw  four  women  holding  hands.  They  were 
dressed  in  Tyrolean  fashion  —  pleated  skirts, 
short  enough  to  show  white,  plump  stockings, 
feet  in  slippers,  upon  the  head  huge  caps, 
starched  and  balloony ;  their  massive  white 
necks,  well  exposed,  were  encircled  by  collars 
that  came  low  on  bodices  elaborately  embroid- 
ered. Behind  them  marched  several  burly 
chaps,  in  all  the  bravery  of  the  Austrian  Tyrol  — 


VISIONARIES 

the  green  alpine  hat,  with  the  feather  at  the 
back,  the  short  gray  jacket,  the  bare  knees,  and 
the  homespun  stockings.  Krayne  regarded  curi- 
ously this  strolling  band  of  singers.  Their  faces 
seemed  familiar  to  him,  and  he  rapidly  recalled 
souvenirs  of  Salzburg  and  an  open-air  concert. 
But  this  morning  there  was  something  that 
arrested  his  attention  in  the  group.  It  was  a 
girl  of  eighteen  or  twenty,  with  a  brilliant  com- 
plexion, large  blue  eyes,  and  a  robust,  shapely 
figure.  As  she  passed  she  gave  him  such  an 
imploring  look,  such  an  appealing  look,  that  all 
his  chivalric  instincts  rushed  into  the  field  of  his 
consciousness.  He  awkwardly  dropped  his  tum- 
bler. He  turned  around,  half  expecting  to  see 
the  big  child  still  looking  at  him.  Instead  he 
gazed  upon  the  athletic  backs  of  her  male  com- 
panions and  to  the  unpleasant  accompaniment 
of  hearty  feminine  laughter.  Were  these  women 
laughing  at  him?  No  fool  like  a  fat  one,  he 
merrily  thought,  as  he  bought  a  new  glass  at 
a  bazaar,  which  a  grinning,  monkey-faced  crea- 
ture sold  him  at  the  regular  price  redoubled. 

Before  his  meagre  breakfast  of  one  egg  and  a 
dry  rusk,  Krayne  endeavoured  to  evoke  the  fea- 
tures of  the  pretty  creature  who  had  so  strongly 
attracted  him.  He  saw  a  tangle  of  black  hair, 
a  glance  that  touched  his  heart  with  its  pathos,  a 
pair  of  soft,  parted  red  lips,  and  dazzling  teeth. 
It  was  an  impression  sufficiently  powerful  to 
keep  him  company  all  the  forenoon.  Fat  men, 
he  reasoned  on  the  steep  pass  that  conducts  to 
152 


THE  ENCHANTED  YODLER 

the  Cafe  Forstwarte,  are  always  sentimental,  by 
no  means  always  amiable,  and,  as  a  rule,  subject 
to  sudden  fancies.  Ten  years  of  his  sentimental 
education  had  been  sown  with  adventures  that 
had  begun  well,  caprices  that  had  no  satisfactory 
endings.  He  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  girl 
who  played  Chopin  on  the  piano,  the  girl  who 
played  Mendelssohn  on  the  violin,  the  girl  who 
played,  Goltermann  on  the  violoncello.  Then 
followed  girls  who  painted,  poetized,  botanized, 
and  hammered  metal.  Once  —  an  exception  — 
he  had  succumbed  to  the  charms  of  an  actress 
who  essayed  characters  in  the  dumps  —  Ibsen 
soubrettes,  Strindberg  servants,  and  Maxim 
G6rky  tramps.  Yet  he  had,  somehow  or  other, 
emerged  heart  whole  from  his  adventures  among 
those  masterpieces  of  the  cosmos  —  women. 

Certainly  this  might  be  another  romance 
added  to  the  long  list  of  his  sentimental  frac- 
tures. He  ate  his  dinner,  the  one  satisfactory 
meal  of  the  day  allowed  him  by  a  cruel  doctor, 
with  the  utmost  deliberation.  He  had  walked 
three  hours  during  the  morning,  and  now,  under 
the  spacious  balconies  of  the  Forstwarte,  he  knew 
that  his  beef  and  spinach  would  be  none  the 
worse  for  a  small  bottle  of  very  dry,  light  Vos- 
lauer.  Besides,  his  physician  had  not  actually 
forbidden  him  a  little  liquid  at  the  midday  meal. 
Just  before  bedtime  he  was  entitled  —  so  his 
dietetic  schedule  told  him  —  to  one  glass  of 
Pilsner  beer.  Not  so  bad,  after  all,  this  banting 
at  Marienbad,  he  reflected.  Anyhow,  it  was 

153 


VISIONARIES 

better  than  the  existence  of  those  fellows  at  sea- 
shore and  mountain,  who  gorged  and  guzzled 
their  summer  away.  Then  he  tried  to  remember 
among  his  London  club  friends  any  who  were 
as  heavy  as  he,  but  he  could  not.  Idly  smoking, 
he  regarded  the  piazzas,  with  their  tables  and 
groups  of  obese  humanity,  eating,  drinking,  and 
buzzing  —  little  fat  flies,  he  thought,  as  he  drew 
his  waistcoat  in,  feeling  quite  haughty  and  slender. 
He  read  on  a  placard  that  the  "  Prager  Bava- 
rian Sextet "  would  give  a  "  grand  "  concert  at 
the  Hotel  Bellevue  this  very  afternoon.  "Ah 
ha!  "  said  Krayne  aloud,  "that's  the  girl  I  saw!  " 
Then  he  wasted  several  hours  more  loitering 
about  the  beautiful  park  on  the  Kaiserstrasse 
and  looking  in  the  shop  windows  at  views  of 
Marienbad  on  postal  cards,  at  yellow-covered 
French,  German,  and  Russian  novels,  at  pictures 
of  kings,  queens,  and  actresses.  He  also  visited 
the  houses  wherein  Goethe,  Chopin,  and  Wagner 
had  dwelt.  It  was  four  o'clock  when  he  entered 
the  garden  of  the  Bellevue  establishment  and 
secured  a  table.  The  waiter  at  his  request  re- 
moved the  other  chairs,  so  he  had  a  nook  to  him- 
self. Not  a  very  large  crowd  was  scattered 
around ;  visitors  at  Marienbad  do  not  care  to 
pay  for  their  diversions.  In  a  few  minutes, 
after  a  march  had  been  banged  from  a  wretched 
piano  —  were  pianos  ever  tuned  on  the  Continent, 
he  wondered  ?  —  the  sextet  appeared,  looking  as 
it  did  in  the  morning,  and  sang  an  Austrian 
melody,  a  capella.  It  was  not  very  interesting. 
154 


THE  ENCHANTED  YODLER 

The  women  stood  in  front  and  yelled  with  a 
hearty  will;  the  men  roared  in  the  background. 
Krayne  saw  his  young  lady,  holding  her  apron 
by  the  sides,  her  head  thrown  back,  her  mouth 
well  opened ;  but  he  could  not  distinguish  her 
individual  voice.  How  pretty  she  was !  He  sipped 
his  coffee.  Then  came  a  zither  solo — that  abomi- 
nable instrument  of  plucked  wires,  with  its  quiver 
of  a  love-sick  clock  about  to  run  down;  this 
parody  of  an  aeolian  harp  always  annoyed 
Krayne,  and  he  was  glad  when  the  man  finished. 
A  stout  soprano  in  a  velvet  bodice,  her  arms 
bare  and  brawny,  the  arms  of  a  lass  accustomed 
to  ploughing  and  digging  potatoes,  sang  some- 
thing about  turtle  doves.  She  was  odious.  Odi- 
ous, too,  was  her  companion,  in  a  duo  through 
which  they  screamed  and  rumbled — "Verlassen 
bin  i."  At  last  she  came  out  and  he  saw  by  the 
programme  that  her  name  was  Roselein  Gich. 
What  an  odd  name,  what  an  attractive  girl !  He 
finished  his  coffee  and  frantically  signalled  his 
waitress.  It  was  against  the  doctor's  orders  to 
take  more  than  one  cup,  and  then  the  sugar! 
Hang  the  doctor,  he  cried,  and  drank  a  second  cup. 

She  sang.  Her  voice  was  an  unusually  heavy, 
rich  contralto.  That  she  was  not  an  accom- 
plished artiste  he  knew.  He  did  not  haunt  opera 
houses  for  naught,  and,  like  all  fat  men  who 
wear  red  ties  in  the  forenoon,  he  was  a  trifle 
dogmatic  in  his  criticism.  The  young  woman 
had  the  making  of  an  opera  singer.  What  a 
Fricka,  Brangaene,  Ortrud,  Sieglinde,  Erda,  this 

155 


VISIONARIES 

clever  girl  might  become  !  She  was  musical,  she 
was  dramatic  in  temperament  —  he  let  his  imagi- 
nation run  away  with  him.  She  only  sang  an 
Oberbayerische  yodel,  and,  while  her  voice  was 
not  very  high,  she  contrived  a  falsetto  that  made 
her  English  listener  shiver.  This  yodel  seemed 
to  him  as  thrilling  as  the  "Ho yo  to  ho!"  of  Brunn- 
hilde  as  she  rushes  over  the  rocky  road  to  Val- 
hall.  La  la  liriti!  La  la  lirita!  Hallali!  chirped 
Roselein,  with  a  final  flourish  that  positively 
enthralled  Hugh  Krayne.  He  applauded,  beat- 
ing with  his  stick  upon  the  table,  his  face  flushed 
by  emotion.  Decidedly  this  girl  was  worth  the 
visit  to  Marienbad. 

And  he  noted  with  delight  that  Fraulein  Gich 
had  left  the  stage.  Basket  in  hand,  she  went  from 
table  to  table,  selling  pictures  and  programmes 
and  collecting  admission  fees.  At  last  he  would 
be  able  to  speak  with  the  enchantress,  for  he 
prided  himself  on  the  purity  of  his  German. 
Smiling  until  she  reached  his  table,  she  sud- 
denly became  serious  when  she  saw  this  big 
Englishman  in  the  plaid  suit  and  red  necktie. 
Again  he  felt  the  imploring  glance,  the  soft  lips 
parted  in  childish  supplication.  It  was  too  much 
for  his  nerves.  He  tossed  into  her  basket  a 
gold  piece,  grabbed  at  random  some  pictures, 
and  as  her  beseeching  expression  deepened, 
her  eyes  moist  with  wonder  and  gratitude,  he 
tugged  at  a  ring  on  his  corpulent  finger,  and, 
wrenching  it  free,  presented  it  to  her  with  a 
well-turned  phrase,  adding:  — 

156 


THE  ENCHANTED  YODLER 

"  Thou  hast  the  making  of  a  great  singer  in 
thee,  Fraulein  Roselein.  I  wish  I  could  help 
thee  to  fame  !  " 

The  girl  gave  him  an  incredulous  stare,  then 
reddening,  the  muscles  on  her  full  neck  stand- 
ing out,  she  ran  like  a  hare  back  to  her  com- 
panions. Evidently  he  had  made  an  impression. 
The  honest  folk  about  him  who  witnessed  the 
little  encounter  fairly  brimmed  over  with  gossip. 
The  stout  basso  moved  slowly  to  Krayne,  who 
braced  himself  for  trouble.  Now  for  it!  he 
whispered  to  himself,  and  grasped  his  walking- 
stick  firmly.  But,  hat  in  hand,  his  visitor,  a 
handsome  blond  man,  approached  and  thanked 
Hugh  for  his  generosity.  He  was  a  lover  of 
music,  the  yodler  assured  him,  and  his  wife  and 
himself  felt  grateful  for  the  interest  he  displayed 
in  Fraulein  Roselein,  his  wife's  sister.  Yes,  she 
had  a  remarkable  voice.  What  a  pity  —  but 
wouldn't  the  gentleman  attend  the  concert  to  be 
given  that  evening  up  at  the  Caf6  Aim  ?  It 
was,  to  be  sure,  rather  far,  the  cafe,  but  the 
moon  would  be  up  and  if  he  could  find  his  way 
there  he  might  do  the  company  the  honour  of 
coming  back  with  them. 

The  Fraulein  would  sing  a  lot  for  him  — 
Bohemian,  Tyrolean,  French,  and  German  songs. 
Ah,  she  was  versatile !  The  man  did  not  speak 
like  a  peasant,  and  seemed  a  shrewd,  pleasant 
fellow.  Hugh  Krayne,  in  excellent  though 
formal  German,  assured  the  other  of  his  pleas- 
ure and  accepted  the  invitation.  Then  he  looked 

157 


VISIONARIES 

over  at  Roselein,  who  stood  on  the  stage,  and  as 
he  did  so  she  waved  a  crimson  handkerchief  at 
him  as  a  friendly  sign.  He  took  off  his  hat, 
touched  significantly  his  own  tie  to  indicate  a 
reciprocity  of  sentiment,  and  all  aglow  he  ordered 
a  third  cup  of  coffee. 

The  cure  could  take  care  of  itself.  Man  lebt 
nnr  einmal ! 

II 

On  his  way  to  the  Aim  he  met  the  fattest 
man  in  Marienbad,  a  former  chef  of  the  German 
emperor,  and  gave  him  a  friendly  salute.  He 
liked  to  see  this  monster,  who  made  the  scales 
groan  at  six  hundred  pounds,  more  than  double 
his  own  weight,  for  it  put  him  at  ease  with  him- 
self. But  this  evening  he  felt  uncomfortable. 
What  if  he  were  to  reach  such  a  climax  in  adi- 
posity !  What  if  in  the  years  to  come  he  should 
be  compelled,  as  was  the  unfortunate  man  from 
Berlin,  to  sit  on  a  chair  every  five  minutes,  a 
chair  carried  by  an  impudent  boy!  What  — 
here  his  heart  sank  —  if  the  Fraulein  should 
mock  his  size !  He  walked  so  rapidly  at  this 
idea  that  other  victims  of  rotundity  stopped  to 
look  at  his  tall  figure  and  nodded  approval. 
Ach !  Marienbad  was  wonderful ! 

After  he  had  found  a  seat  at  the  Aim  next  to 
the  low  wall,  across  which  he  could  see  a  vast 
stretch  of  undulating  country,  lighted  by  a  moon 
that  seemed  to  swing  like  a  silver  hoop  in  the 

158 


THE  ENCHANTED  YODLER 

sky,  Krayne  ordered  Pilsner.  He  was  fatigued 
by  the  hilly  scramble  and  he  was  thirsty.  Oh, 
the  lovely  thirst  of  Marienbad  —  who  that  hath 
not  been  within  thy  hospitable  gates  he  knoweth 
it  not !  The  magic  of  the  night  was  making  of 
him  a  poet.  He  could  see  his  Tyrolean  friends 
behind  the  glass  partition  of  the  little  hall.  There 
would  they  sing,  not  in  the  open.  It  was  nearly 
the  same,  for  presently  the  windows  were  raised 
and  their  voices  came  floating  out  to  him,  the 
bourdon  of  Roselein's  organ  easily  distinguish- 
able. Love  had  sharpened  his  ears.  He  drained 
his  glass  and  sent  for  another.  He  felt  that  he 
was  tumbling  down  an  abyss  of  passion  and  that 
nothing  in  the  world  could  save  him. 

The  intermission  !  He  stood  up  to  attract  the 
attention  of  Herr  Johan  Prager.  Roselein  saw 
him  and  at  once  neared  him,  but  without  the 
basket.  This  delicacy  pleased  Krayne  very 
much.  It  showed  him  that  he  was  not  on  the 
same  footing  as  the  public.  He  made  the  girl 
take  a  seat,  and  though  he  felt  the  eyes  of  the 
crowd  upon  him,  he  was  not  in  the  least  con- 
cerned. London  was  far  away  and  the  season 
was  too  young  for  the  annual  rush  of  his  com- 
patriots. Would  the  Fraulein  take  something  ? 
She  accepted  coffee,  which  she  drank  from  a 
long  glass  with  plenty  of  milk  and  sugar.  She 
again  gazed  at  him  with  such  a  resigned  expres- 
sion that  he  felt  his  starched  cuffs  grow  warm 
from  their  contiguity  to  his  leaping  pulses. 

"  Yes,  Fraulein,"  he  said,  employing  the  famil- 

159 


VISIONARIES 

iar  dut  "  thou  hast  overcome  me.  Why  not  ac- 
cept my  offer  ? "  Was  this  the  prudent  Hugh 
Krayne  talking  ?  She  smiled  sweetly  and  shook 
her  head.  Her  voice  was  delicious  in  colour  and 
intonation,  nor  did  it  betray  humble  origin. 

"  I  fear,  dear  sir,  that  what  you  offer  is  im- 
possible. My  sister,  the  soprano,  would  never 
hear  of  such  a  thing.  My  brother,  her  hus- 
band, would  not  allow  it.  And  I  owe  them  my 
living,  my  education.  How  could  I  repay  them 
if  I  left  them  now  ?  "  she  hesitated. 

"  Simply  enough.  You  would  be  a  singer  at 
the  opera  some  day,  and  take  them  all  to  live 
with  you.  Is  there  no  other  reason  ? "  He 
recollected  with  a  vivid  sense  of  the  disagree- 
able the  lively  antics  of  a  lithe  youth  in  the 
company,  who,  at  the  close  of  the  concert,  exe- 
cuted with  diabolic  dexterity  what  they  called  a 
ScJmhplattltanz.  This  dance  had  glued  Krayne's 
attention,  for  Roselein  was  the  young  tenor 
singer's  partner.  With  their  wooden  sabots 
they  clattered  and  sang,  waving  wildly  their 
arms  or  else  making  frantic  passages  of  pre- 
tended love  and  coquetry.  It  upset  the  Eng- 
lishman to  see  the  impudence  of  this  common 
peasant  fellow  grasping  Roselein  by  the  waist, 
as  he  whirled  her  about  in  the  boorish  dance. 
Hence  the  clause  to  his  question.  She  endured 
his  inquiring  gaze,  as  she  simply  answered :  — 

"  No,  there  is  no  other  reason."  She  put  her 
hand  on  the  arm  of  her  companion  and  the  lights 
suddenly  became  misty,  for  he  was  of  an  apo- 
160 


THE  ENCHANTED  YODLER 

plectic  tendency.  They  talked  of  music,  of  the 
opera  in  Vienna  and  Prague.  She  was  born  in 
Bavaria,  not  more  than  a  day's  ride  from  Marien- 
bad.  You  could  almost  see  her  country  from 
the  top  of  the  Podhornberg,  in  the  direction  of 
the  Franconian  Mountains,  not  far  from  Bay- 
reuth.  The  place  was  called  Schnabelwaid,  and 
it  was  very  high,  very  windy.  Since  her  tenth 
year  she  had  been  singing  —  yes,  even  in  the 
chorus  at  the  Vienna  opera,  with  her  sister 
and  brother.  They  were  no  common  yodlers. 
They  could  sing  all  the  music  of  the  day.  The 
yodling  was  part  of  their  business,  as  was  the 
costume.  Later,  when  she  had  enough  saved, 
she  would  study  in  Vienna  for  grand  opera ! 

He  was  enraptured.  How  romantic  it  all 
was  !  A  free-born  maiden  —  he  was  certain  she 
was  reared  in  some  old  castle  —  wandering  about 
earning  money  for  her  musical  education.  What 
a  picture  for  a  painter !  What  a  story  for  a  nov- 
elist! They  were  interrupted.  The  dancer,  a 
young  man  with  a  heavy  shock  of  hair  growing 
low  on  his  forehead,  under  which  twinkled  beady 
black  eyes,  had  been  sent  to  tell  Fraulein  Rose- 
lein  that  her  colleagues  were  waiting  for  her. 
With  a  courtesy  she  went  away.  Krayne  now 
thoroughly  hated  the  dancer. 

It  was  long  after  eleven  when  the  concert  was 
over  and  the  party  started  on  its  homeward  trip. 
Krayne  and  Roselein  walked  behind  the  others, 
and  soon  the  darkness  and  the  narrowness  of 
the  road  forced  him  to  tread  after  the  girl.  The 
161 


VISIONARIES 

moon's  rays  at  intervals  pierced  the  foliage,  mak- 
ing lacelike  patches  of  light  in  the  gloom.  At 
times  they  skirted  the  edges  of  a  circular  clear- 
ing and  saw  the  high  pines  fringing  the  south- 
ern horizon ;  overhead  the  heavens  were  almost 
black,  except  where  great  streams  of  stars  swept 
in  irregular  bands.  It  was  a  glorious  sight, 
Krayne  told  Roselein  —  too  sublime  to  be  dis- 
tracted by  mere  mortal  love-making,  he  mentally 
added.  Nevertheless  he  was  glad  when  they 
were  again  in  the  woods ;  he  could  barely  distin- 
guish the  girl  ahead  of  him,  but  her  outline  made 
his  heart  beat  faster.  Once,  as  they  neared  the 
town,  he  helped  her  down  a  declivity  into  the 
roadway,  and  he  could  not  help  squeezing  her 
hand.  The  pressure  was  returned.  He  boldly 
placed  her  arm  within  his,  and  they  at  last 
reached  the  streets,  but  not  before,  panting  with 
mingled  fright  and  emotion,  he  solemnly  kissed 
her.  She  did  not  appear  surprised. 

"Call  me  Rosie  —  thou !  "  she  murmured,  and 
her  nafvet£  brought  the  ready  tears  to  his  eyes. 
They  made  a  rendezvous  for  the  next  morning 
on  the  Promenade  Platz.  The  only  thing  he  did 
not  like  was  the  scowling  face  of  the  dancer 
when  he  said  good  night  to  the  others  under  the 
electric  lights  of  the  Kreuzbrunnen.  He  was 
correct,  then,  in  his  premonition. 

That  night  Hugh  Krayne  dreamed  he  was  a 

very   skeleton   for    thinness  —  not   an   unusual 

vision  of  fat  men  —  and  also  a  Tyrolean  yodler, 

displaying  himself  before  a  huge  audience  of 

162 


THE  ENCHANTED  YODLER 

gigantic  human  beings,  who  laughed  so  loudly 
that  he  could  not  open  his  lips  to  frame  the  fa- 
miliar words  of  his  song.  In  the  despair  of  a 
frantic  nightmare,  his  face  streaming  with  an- 
guished tears,  he  forced  his  voice  :  — 

La,  la,  liriti!  La,  la,  larita  !  Hallali!  Then 
he  awoke  in  triumph.  Was  he  not  a  yodler? 

Ill 

He  told  her  of  his  dream  and  strange  ambi- 
tion. She  did  not  discourage  him.  It  could  be 
settled  easily  enough.  Why  not  join  the  com- 
pany and  take  a  few  lessons  ?  "  With  such  a 
teacher?"  he  had  exclaimed,  and  his  gesture 
was  so  impassioned  that  the  promenaders,  with 
their  shining  morning  goblets  of  water,  were  ar- 
rested by  the  spectacle.  Wonderful,  wonderful 
Marienbad!  was  the  general  comment!  But 
Krayne  was  past  ridicule.  He  already  saw  Rose- 
lein  his  bride.  He  saw  himself  a  yodler.  The 
cure  ?  Ay,  there  was  the  rub.  He  laid  bare 
his  heart.  She  aided  him  with  her  cool  advice. 
She  was  very  sensible.  Her  brother-in-law  and 
her  sister  would  welcome  him  in  their  household, 
for  he  was  a  lover  of  music  and  his  intentions 
were  honourable.  Of  course,  he  sighed,  of  course, 
and  fingered  his  red  tie.  Why  not,  she  argued, 
remain  at  Marienbad  for  three  weeks  more  and 
complete  his  cure  ?  Anyhow,  he  was  not  so 
stout!  She  looked  up  at  him  archly.  Again 
he  saw  mist. 


VISIONARIES 

That  settled  it.  For  another  three  weeks  he 
lived  in  a  cloud  of  expectation,  of  severe  training, 
long  walks,  dieting,  and  Turkish  baths.  No  man 
worked  harder.  And  he  was  rewarded  by  see- 
ing his  flesh  melt  away  a  pound  or  two  daily. 
When  the  company  returned  after  its  itinerary 
in  the  neighbourhood  Rosie  was  surprised  to 
meet  a  man  who  did  not  weigh  much  over  two 
hundred  pounds,  healthy,  vigorous,  and  at  least 
five  years  younger  in  appearance.  She  was  very 
much  touched.  So  was  her  sister.  There  was 
a  family  consultation,  and  despite  the  surly  op- 
position of  the  dancer,  Hugh  Krayne  was  wel- 
comed as  a  member  of  the  Prager  Bavarian 
Sextette  company.  Forgetting  the  future  he 
had  arranged  for  Rosie,  he  began  his  vocal  les- 
sons immediately. 

In  July  he  sang  for  the  first  time  in  public  at 
Eger.  He  was  extremely  frightened,  but  as  it 
was  only  a  duo  he  managed  fairly  well.  Then 
he  sang  at  Tepl,  this  time  alone.  His  voice 
broke  badly  in  the  yodel  and  he  was  jeered  by 
a  rude  audience.  He  had  grown  very  much 
thinner.  His  doctor  warned  him  against  con- 
tinuing the  waters,  and  advised  rice,  potatoes, 
and  ale,  but  he  did  not  listen.  He  now  paid  the 
bills  of  the  company  while  travelling.  Rosie 
had  confessed  with  tears  that  they  were  fear- 
fully poor.  From  that  time  he  handed  her  his 
purse.  He  even  placated  the  jealous  dancer 
with  a  gold  watch  and  a  box  of  hair  pomade. 
Ah !  how  he  loathed  the  fellow's  curly  locks,  his 
164 


THE   ENCHANTED   YODLER 

greasy  familiarities !  Rosie  told  him  this  acro- 
bat was  necessary  in  the  company  until  he  could 
be  replaced.  Already  Hugh  —  she  called  him 
"  U  "  —  could  yodel  better.  Some  day  he  might, 
when  thinner,  dance  better.  Perhaps  —  again 
that  appealing  glance,  the  corner  of  her  lips 
faintly  touched  by  the  mysterious  smile  of  a 
Monna  Lisa.  Krayne  redoubled  his  arduous 
training,  practised  yodling  in  the  forests,  danced 
jigs  on  the  pine-needles,  and  doubled  his  allow- 
ance of  the  waters. 

They  went  to  Carlsbad.  He  yodled.  He  was 
applauded.  The  dancer  was  in  a  fine  rage.  Al- 
though Krayne  had  asked  Rosie  to  buy  a  first- 
class  compartment  on  the  railroad  trip  over  and 
back,  they  went  in  a  third-class  car.  Prager  de- 
clared that  it  was  good  enough  for  him,  and  he 
didn't  wish  to  spoil  his  troupe !  His  wife  now 
held  the  purse-strings,  as  Rosie  was  too  en- 
grossed with  her  art  and  Hugh  too  absorbed  in 
his  love  to  notice  such  mere  sublunary  matters. 
The  girl  had  promised  nothing  positive  for  the 
future.  She  kept  him  on  the  brittle  edge  of 
nervous  expectation.  The  opposition  of  the 
dancer  had  been  successfully  met  by  threats  of 
dismissal;  Hugh  continued  to  lose  flesh  and 
gain  in  vocal  and  pedal  agility. 

He  danced  for  the  first  time  at  Konigswart, 
not  far  from  the  chateau  of  the  Metternichs. 
It  was  August.  So  great  was  the  applause  that 
the  younger  dancer  was  discharged.  He  left 
with  muttered  threats  of  vengeance.  The  next 
165 


VISIONARIES 

day  Krayne  turned  over  all  his  business  affairs 
to  the  able  hand  of  Frau  Prager ;  he  lived  only 
for  Rosie  and  his  art.  .  .  . 

September  was  at  hand.  The  weather  was 
so  warm  and  clear,  that  the  king  of  England 
deferred  his  departure  for  a  few  days.  One 
afternoon,  just  before  the  leaves  began  to  brown 
on  the  hills,  there  was  a  concert  at  the  gar- 
den of  the  Hotel  Bellevue.  The  royal  party 
attended.  The  yodling  was  much  praised, 
especially  that  of  a  good-looking  young  woman 
and  her  escort,  a  very  tall  man  of  cadaverous 
aspect,  his  shanks  like  the  wooden  stilts  of  the 
shepherds  on  the  Bordeaux  Landes.  His  face, 
preternaturally  emaciated  and  fatigued,  opened 
to  emit  an  amazing  yodel.  When  the  Schuh- 
plattltanz  was  reached  he  surprised  the  audience 
by  an  extraordinary  exhibition.  He  threw  his 
long  legs  about  like  billiard  cues,  while  his  arms 
flapped  as  do  windmills  in  a  hard  gale.  He  was 
pointed  out  as  a  celebrity  —  once  a  monster 
Englishman,  who  had  taken  the  Kur ;  who  was 
in  love,  but  so  poor  that  he  could  not  marry. 
The  girl  with  him  was  certain  to  make  a  success 
in  grand  opera  some  day.  Yes,  Marienbad  was 
proud  of  Krayne.  He  was  one  of  her  show 
sons,  a  witness  to  her  curative  powers.  Proud 
also  of  the  Bavarian  Prager  Sextette.  Herr 
Prager  was  reputed  a  rich  man.  .  .  . 

The  night  of  that  concert  Marienbad  saw  the 
last  of  the  Bavarian  sextette,  which  at  midnight, 
joined  by  its  old  dancer  with  the  tenor  voice, 
166 


THE  ENCHANTED  YODLER 

left  in  a  third-class  carriage  for  Vienna.  Hugh 
Krayne,  not  possessing  enough  to  pay  his  pas- 
sage, had  not  been  invited ;  nor  was  he  informed 
of  the  sudden  departure  until  a  day  later.  .  .  . 

On  the  road  to  the  Aim,  of  moonlight  nights, 
toiling  visitors  catch  glimpses  of  a  human, 
almost  a  skeleton,  dressed  in  rags,  his  head 
bare  as  his  feet,  about  his  neck  a  flaming  crim- 
son handkerchief.  He  is  known  to  Marien- 
baders  as  "  The  Man  Who  Stayed  Too  Long." 
He  never  addresses  passers-by ;  but  as  they  lose 
sight  of  him  they  hear  the  woods  resound  with 
his  elegiac  howl :  — 

La  la  liriti  !    La  la  lirita  !    Hallali  ! 


167 


X 

THE   THIRD   KINGDOM 
I 

A  DOUBTER 

BROTHER  HYZLO  sat  in  his  cell  and  read. 
The  gentle  stillness  of  a  rare  spring  morning 
enveloped  him  with  its  benison.  And  the  clear 
light  fell  upon  the  large  pages  of  a  book  in  his 
hand,  —  the  window  through  which  it  streamed 
was  the  one  link  between  the  young  recluse  and 
the  life  of  the  world.  From  it  he  could  see  the 
roofs  of  the  city  beneath  him;  when  he  so 
wished,  he  might,  without  straining  his  gaze, 
distinguish  the  Pantheon  at  the  end  of  that  tri- 
umphal avenue  which  spanned  the  Seine  and  had 
once  evoked  for  him  visions  of  antique  splendour. 
But  Brother  Hyzlo  no  longer  cared  for  mundane 
delights.  His  doubting  soul  was  the  battle-field 
over  which  he  ranged  day  and  night  searching 
for  diabolic  opponents.  Exterior  existence  had 
become  for  him  a  shadow ;  the  only  life  worth 
living  was  that  of  the  spirit. 

In  his  book  that  fresh  spring  morning  he 
read  as  if  in  the  flare  of  a  passing  meteor  these 
disquieting  words  :  — 

168 


THE  THIRD   KINGDOM 

"  How  were  it  if,  some  day  or  night,  a  demon 
stole  after  thee  into  thy  most  solitary  solitude, 
and  said  to  thee :  '  This  life,  as  thou  livest  it 
now,  and  hast  lived  it,  thou  shalt  have  to  live 
over  again,  and  not  once  but  innumerable  times  ; 
and  there  will  be  nothing  new  in  it,  but  every 
pain  and  every  pleasure  and  every  thought  and 
sigh,  and  everything  in  thy  life,  the  great  and 
the  unspeakably  petty  alike,  must  come  again  to 
thee,  and  all  in  the  same  series  and  succession ; 
this  spider,  too,  and  this  moonlight  betwixt  the 
trees  and  this  moment  likewise  and  I  myself. 
The  eternal  sand-glass  of  time  is  always  turned 
again,  and  thou  with  it,  thou  atom  of  dust '  ? 
Wouldst  thou  not  cast  thyself  down  and  with 
gnashing  of  teeth  curse  the  demon  who  thus 
spoke  ?  Or,  hast  thou  ever  experienced  the 
tremendous  moment  in  which  thou  wouldst 
answer  him  :  '  Thou  art  a  god  and  never  heard 
I  anything  more  divine  '  ?  " 

The  book  slipped  from  his  hands.  "  Why 
not  ? "  he  murmured,  "  why  not  ?  There  is  no 
such  thing  as  chance.  The  law  of  probabilities 
is  not  a  mere  fancy,  but  an  austere  need.  Mat- 
ter is  ever  in  evolution.  Energy  alone  is  inde- 
structible. Radium  has  revealed  this  to  us. 
In  eternity  when  the  Infinite  throws  the  dice, 
double-sixes  are  sure  to  come  up  more  than 
once.  Miracles  ?  But  why  miraculous  ?  In- 
finity of  necessity  must  repeat  itself,  and  then  I, 
sitting  here  now,  will  sit  here  again,  sit  and 
doubt  the  goodness  of  God,  ay,  doubt  His 

169 


VISIONARIES 

existence.  .  .  .  How  horrible  ! "  He  paused 
in  the  whirl  of  his  thoughts. 

"  Yet  how  beautiful,  for  if  the  eternal  recur- 
rence be  truth,  then  must  the  great  drama  of  the 
Redemption  be  repeated.  Then  will  our  foes 
be  convinced  of  Christianity  and  its  reality. 
But  shall  we  be  conscious  in  that  far-off  time  of 
our  anterior  existence  ?  Ah  !  hideous,  coiling 
doubt.  What  a  demon  is  this  Nietzsche  to 
set  whirring  in  the  brains  of  poor,  suffering 
humanity  such  torturing  questions  !  Better,  far 
better  for  the  world  to  live  and  not  to  think. 
Thought  is  a  disease,  a  morbid  secretion  of  the 
brain-cells.  Ah  !  materialist  that  I  am,  I  can 
no  longer  think  without  remembering  the  ideas 
of  Cabanis,  that  gross  atheist.  Why  am  I  pun- 
ished so  ?  What  crimes  have  I  committed  in  a 
previous  existence  —  Karma,  again  !  —  that  I 
must  perforce  study  the  writings  of  impious 
men?  Yet  I  submitted  myself  as  a  candidate 
for  the  task,  to  save  my  brethren  in  Christ  from 
soiling  their  hearts.  Heaven  preserve  me  from 
the  blight  of  spiritual  pride,  but  I  believe  that 
I  am  now  a  scapegoat  for  the  offences  of  my 
fellow-monks,  and,  thus,  may  redeem  my  own 
wretched  soul.  Ah  !  Nietzsche  —  Antichrist." 

He  arose  and  threw  the  volume  across  his 
cell.  Then  going  to  the  window  regarded  with 
humid  gaze  the  world  that  sprawled  below  him 
in  the  voluptuous  sunshine.  But  so  sternly  was 
the  inner  eye  fixed  on  the  things  of  the  spirit 
that  he  soon  turned  away  from  the  delectable 
170 


THE  THIRD  KINGDOM 

picture,  and  as  he  did  so  his  glance  rested  upon 
a  crucifix.  He  started,  his  perturbed  imagina- 
tion again  touched. 

"What  if  Nietzsche  were  right?  The  first 
Christian,  the  only  Christian,  died  on  the  cross, 
he  has  said.  What  an  arraignment  of  our  pre- 
cious faith,  Jesus  Christ,  our  Lord  God!  What 
sweet  names  are  Thine !  How  could  Nietzsche 
not  feel  the  music  of  that  Hebrew-Greek  com- 
bination ?  Perhaps  he  did  ;  perhaps  he  masked 
a  profound  love  behind  his  hatred.  Jesus  our 
Lord!  Hebrew-Greek.  But  why  Greek? 
Why  .  .  .  ?  "  Another  pause  in  this  sequestered 
chamber  where  the  buzzing  of  an  insect  could 
assume  a  thunderous  roar.  "  The  eternal  return. 
Why  should  Christ  return  ?  Must  the  earth  be 
saved  again  and  again  and  a  billion  times  again  ? 
Awful  thought  of  a  God  descending  to  a  horrible 
death  to  cleanse  the  nameless  myriads  from  sins 
which  they  seek  ever  as  flies  treacle.  More 
ghastly  still  is  the  thought  that  the  atheist  Scan- 
dinavian put  into  the  mouth  of  his  Julian  the 
Apostate:  When  our  Christ  is  not  saving  this 
earth  from  eternal  damnation  then  he  may  be 
visiting  remote  planets  or  inaccessible  stars, 
where  coloured  double  suns  of  blinding  brilliancy 
revolve  terrifically  in  twin  harness.  There,  too, 
are  souls  to  be  rescued.  What  a  grand  idea! 
It  is  Ibsen's,  as  is  the  interpretation  of  the  Third 
Kingdom.  It  should  have  been  Nietzsche's. 
Why  this  antinomianism  ?  Why  this  eternal 
conflict  of  evil  and  good,  of  night  and  day,  of 
171 


VISIONARIES 

sweet  and  sour,  of  God  and  devil,  of  Ormuzd 
and  Ahriman  ? " 

The  exotic  names  transposed  his  thoughts  to 
another  avenue.  If  Christ  is  to  come  again,  and 
the  holy  word  explicitly  states  that  He  will,  why 
not  Buddha?  Why  not  Brahma  ?  Why  not ...  ? 
Again  a  hiatus.  This  time  something  snapped 
in  his  head.  He  sank  back  in  his  chair.  Buddha ! 
Was  there  ever  a  Buddha  ?  And  if  there  was 
not,  was  there  ever  such  a  personality  as  Christ's  ? 
Scholar  that  he  was  he  knew  that  myth-building 
was  a  pastime  for  the  Asiatic  imagination,  great, 
impure,  mysterious  Asia  —  Asia  the  mother  of 
all  religions,  the  cradle  of  the  human  race.  To 
deny  the  objective  existence  of  Christ  would  set 
at  rest  all  his  doubts,  one  overwhelming  doubt 
swallowing  the  minor  doubts.  He  had  never 
speculated  at  length  upon  the  Christ  legend,  for 
did  not  Renan,  yes,  that  silky  heretic,  believe  in 
the  personality  of  Jesus,  believe  and  lovingly 
portray  it?  The  Nietzsche  doctrine  of  the 
eternal  recurrence  had  so  worked  upon  his 
sensitive  mental  apparatus  that  he  could  have 
almost  denied  the  existence  of  Christ  rather 
than  deny  that  our  universe  repeats  itself  in- 
finitely. Eternity  is  a  wheel,  earthly  events  are 
the  spokes  of  this  whirring  wheel.  It  was  the 
seeming  waste  of  divine  material  that  shocked 
his  nerves.  One  crucifixion  —  yes ;  but  two  or 
two  quintillions  and  infinitely  more  ! 

Brother  Hyzlo  stared  at  the  crucifix.  Was  it 
only  a  symbol,  as  some  learned  blasphemers 
172 


THE  THIRD   KINGDOM 

averred  ?  The  human  figure  so  painfully  ex- 
tended upon  it  was  a  God,  a  God  who  de- 
scended from  high  heaven  to  become  a  shield 
between  the  wrath  of  His  Father  and  humanity. 
Why  ?  Why  should  the  God  who  created  us 
grow  angry  with  our  shortcomings  ?  We  are 
'His  handiwork.  Are  we  then  to  blame  for  our 
imperfections  ?  Is  not  Jesus,  instead  of  a  medi- 
ator, rather  a  votive  offering  to  the  wounded 
vanity  of  the  great  Jehovah  ?  Was  not  Prome- 
theus —  a  light  broke  in  upon  Hyzlo.  Prome- 
theus, a  myth,  Buddha  a  myth.  All  myths. 
There  were  other  virgin-born  saviours.  Krishna, 
Mithra,  Buddha.  Vishnu  had  not  one  but  nine 
incarnations.  Christianity  bears  alarming  resem- 
blances to  Mithraism.  Mithra,  too,  was  born 
in  a  cave.  The  dates  of  Christ's  birth  and  death 
may  be  astronomical :  the  winter  and  vernal 
equinoxes.  But  the  conflict  of  the  authorities 
regarding  these  dates  is  mortifying.  The  four 
gospels  are  in  reality  four  witnesses  warring 
against  each  other.  They  were  selected  hap- 
hazard at  a  human  council.  They  were  not  com- 
posed until  the  latter  part  of  the  second  century, 
and  the  synoptic  gospels  are  compilations  from 
unknown  writers,  while  the  fourth  gospel  is  a 
much  later  work.  And  how  colourless,  imitative, 
is  the  New  when  compared  to  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, —  echoing  with  the  antiphonal  thunders 
of  Jehovah  and  his  stern-mouthed  Prophets ! 
The  passage  in  Josephus  touching  on  Christ 
is  now  known  to  have  been  interpolated. 

173 


VISIONARIES 

Authentic  history  does  not  record  the  existence 
of  Christ.  Not  one  of  his  contemporaries  men- 
tions him.  That  tremendous  drama  in  Galilee 
was  not  even  commented  upon  by  the  Romans,  a 
nation  keen  to  notice  any  deviation  from  normal 
history.  The  Jewish  records  are  doubtful,  writ- 
ten centuries  after  His  supposed  death.  And 
they  are  malicious.  What  cannot  happen  in  two 
centuries  ?  Hyzlo  reflected  sadly  upon  Moslem- 
ism,  upon  Mormonism,  upon  the  vagaries  of  a 
strange  American  sect  at  whose  head  was  said 
to  be  a  female  pope. 

The  similarity  of  circumstances  in  the  lives  of 
Buddha  and  Christ  also  annoyed  him.  Both 
were  born  of  virgins,  both  renounced  the  world, 
both  were  saviours.  There  were  the  same  temp- 
tations, the  same  happenings ;  prophecies,  mira- 
cles, celestial  rejoicings,  a  false  disciple,  the 
seven  beatitudes  —  a  reflection  of  the  Oriental 
wisdom  —  an  expiatory  death  and  resurrection. 
The  entire  machinery  of  the  Christian  church, 
its  saints,  martyrs,  festivals,  ritual,  and  philoso- 
phies are  borrowed  from  the  mythologies  of  the 
pagans.  Sun-worship  is  the  beginning  of  all 
religions.  To  the  genius  of  the  epileptic  Paul, 
or  Saul,  —  founders  of  religions  are  always  epi- 
lepts,  —  a  half  Greek  and  disciple  of  the  Pharisee 
Gamaliel,  who  saw  visions  and  put  to  the  sword 
his  enemies,  to  Paul,  called  a  saint,  a  man  of 
overwhelming  personal  force,  to  this  cruel  anar- 
chist, relentless,  half-mad  fanatic  and  his  theo- 
logical doctrines  we  owe  the  preservation  and 
174 


THE  THIRD   KINGDOM 

power  of  the  Christian  Church.  At  first  the 
Christians  were  the  miserable  offscourings  of 
society,  slaves,  criminals,  and  lunatics.  They 
burrowed  in  the  Catacombs,  they  fastened  them- 
selves upon  a  decaying  and  magnificent  civiliza- 
tion like  the  parasites  they  were.  A  series  of 
political  catastrophes,  a  popular  uprising  against 
the  rotten  emperors  of  decadent  Rome,  and  the 
wide  growth  of  the  socialist  idea  —  these  things 
and  an  unscrupulous  man,  Constantine  the 
Great,  put  the  Christians  firmly  in  the  saddle. 
And  soon  came  cataracts  of  blood.  If  the  tales 
of  the  imperial  persecutions  are  true,  then  hath 
Christianity  been  revenged  a  million  fold ;  where 
her  skirt  has  trailed  there  has  been  the  cruel 
stain  of  slaughter.  It  must  not  be  forgotten,  too, 
that  immorality  of  the  grossest  sort  was  promised 
the  deluded  sectarians,  compared  with  which 
the  Mahometan  paradise  is  spiritual.  And  the 
end  of  the  world  was  predicted  at  the  end  of 
every  century,  and  finally  relegated  to  the  mil- 
lennial celebration  of  Christianity's  birth.  When, 
in  1000  A.D.,  this  catastrophe  did  not  occur,  the 
faith  received  its  first  great  shock. 

He  summoned  to  his  memory  a  cloud  of  wit- 
nesses, all  contradictory.  Josephus  was  barred. 
Philo  Judaeus,  who  was  living  near  the  centre  of 
things,  an  observer  on  the  scent  of  the  spiritual, 
a  man  acquainted  with  the  writings  of  Rabbi 
Hillel,  and  the  father  of  Neoplatonism  —  never 
mentions  Jesus,  nor  does  he  speak  of  any  reli- 
gious uprising  in  Judea.  The  passage  in  Virgil, 

175 


VISIONARIES 

which  has  through  the  doubtful  testimony  of 
monkish  writers  been  construed  into  a  prophecy 
of  a  forthcoming  Messiah,  Hyzlo,  who  was  a 
scholar,  knew  to  have  been  addressed  to  a  son 
of  Virgil's  intimate  friend.  Tacitus,  too,  has 
been  interpolated.  Seneca's  ideal  man  is  not 
Jesus,  for  Jesus  is  Osiris,  Horus,  Krishna, 
Mithra,  Hercules,  Adonis,  — think  of  this  beauti- 
ful young  god's  death  !  —  Buddha.  Such  a  mock 
trial  and  death  could  not  have  taken  place  under 
the  Roman  or  Jewish  laws.  The  sacraments 
derive  from  the  Greeks,  from  the  Indians — the 
mysteries  of  Ceres  and  Bacchus,  from  the  Haoma 
sacrifice  of  the  Persians,  originally  Brahmanic. 
The  Trinity,  was  it  not  a  relic  of  that  ineradi- 
cable desire  for  polytheism  implanted  in  the 
human  bosom  ?  Was  the  crucifixion  but  a 
memory  of  those  darker  cults  and  blood  sacri- 
fices of  Asia,  and  also  of  the  expiating  goats  sent 
out  into  the  wilderness  ?  What  became  of  that 
Hosanna-shouting  crowd  which  welcomed  Christ 
on  Palm  Sunday  ?  And  there  never  were  such 
places  as  Gethsemane  and  Calvary.  Alas !  the 
Son  of  Man  had  indeed  no  spot  to  lay  his  head. 
And  why  had  He  made  no  sign  when  on  earth ! 
Brother  Hyzlo  wept  bitter  tears. 

But  he  wiped  them  away  as  he  considered  the 
similarity  of  the  massacre  of  the  Innocents  in 
Judea  and  the  massacre  of  the  male  children 
ordered  by  the  wicked  Indian  Rajah  of  Madura, 
who  feared  the  Krishna,  just  conceived  by  divine 
agency.  Yes,  the  chronicles  were  full  of  these 


THE  THIRD   KINGDOM 

gods  born  of  virgins,  of  crucifixions,  —  he  could 
remember  sixteen,  —  of  these  solar  myths.  He 
caught  tripping  in  a  thousand  cases  the  transla- 
tions of  our  holy  books.  The  Ox  and  Ass  legend 
at  the  Nativity  he  realized  was  the  Pseudo-Mat- 
thew's description  to  Habakkuk  of  the  literal 
presence :  "  In  the  midst  of  two  animals  thou 
shalt  be  known ; "  which  is  a  mistranslated 
Hebrew  text  in  the  Prayer  ascribed  to  Habak- 
kuk. It  got  into  the  Greek  Septuagint  version 
of  the  Prophet  made  by  Egyptian  Jews  before 
1 50  B.C.  It  should  read,  "in  the  midst  of  the 
years,"  not "  animals."  "  Ah  !  "  cried  Hyzlo,  "  in 
this  as  in  important  cardinal  doctrines  have  the 
faithful  been  the  slaves  of  the  learned  and  un- 
scrupulous pious  forgers.  Even  the  notorious 
Apollonius  of  Tyana  imitated  the  miracles  of 
Christ  —  all  of  them.  And  what  of  that  wicked 
wizard,  Simon  Magus  ? 

The  very  repetition  of  these  miracles  in  all 
races,  at  all  epochs,  pointed  to  the  doctrine  of 
recurrence.  But  back  of  all  the  negations,  back 
of  the  inexpugnable  proof  that  no  such  man 
or  God  as  Christ  existed,  or  was  known  to  his 
contemporaries,  Jewish  and  Roman,  there  must 
have  been  some  legend  which  had  crystallized 
into  a  mighty  religion.  Was  He  an  agitator 
who  preferred  His  obscurity  that  His  glory 
might  be  all  the  greater?  There  must  have 
been  a  beginning  to  the  myth ;  behind  the  gos- 
pels—  though  they  are  obviously  imitated  from 
the  older  testaments,  imitated  and  diluted  — 
177 


VISIONARIES 

were  unknown  writings;  previous  to  these  there 
was  word  of  mouth  and  —  and  .  .  .  ? 

The  day  had  advanced,  the  sun  was  very 
warm.  A  shaft  of  light  fell  upon  the  cold  stone 
floor,  and  in  its  fiery  particles  darted  myriads  of 
motes.  Hyzlo  followed  their  spiral  flights,  think- 
ing all  the  while  of  humanity  which  flashes  from 
out  the  dark  void,  plays  madly  in  the  light,  only 
to  vanish  into  the  unknown  night.  His  gaze 
was  held  by  the  smoothness  of  the  flagging  at 
his  feet.  Then  it  became  transformed  into 
marble,  the  walls  of  his  cell  widened,  and  he 
closed  his  eyes,  so  blinding  were  the  long  lad- 
ders of  light.  .  .  . 

II 

TWO   DREAMERS 

He  opened  them  .  .  .  the  harbour  with  its 
army  of  galleys  and  pleasure  craft  lay  in  the 
burning  sunshine,  its  surface  a  sapphire  blue. 
Overhead  the  sky  echoed  this  tone,  which  mod- 
ulated into  deeper  notes  of  purple  on  the  far- 
away hills  whose  tops  were  wreathed  in  mist. 
Under  his  sandalled  feet  was  marble,  back  of 
him  were  the  gleaming  spires  and  towers  of  the 
great  city,  and  at  his  left  was  a  mountain  of 
shining  marble,  the  Pharos. 

"  Alexandria  ?  "  he  called  out  as  he  was  jostled 
by  a  melon-seller,  and  startled  by  the  fluted 
invitations  of  a  young  girl  —  an  antique  statue 
come  to  life. 


THE  THIRD   KINGDOM 

"  Of  course  it  is  Alexandria,"  replied  a  deep> 
harsh  voice  at  his  elbow.  He  turned.  It  was 
his  friend  Philo. 

"  You  have  at  last  emerged  from  your  day- 
dream, Hyzlo  !  I  thought,  as  our  bark  clove  the 
water,  that  you  were  enjoying  visions."  And  it 
seemed  to  Hyzlo  that  he  had  just  awakened  from 
a  bizarre  dream  of  a  monastic  cell,  to  more  beau- 
tiful sights  and  shapes  and  sounds.  The  pair 
now  traversed  the  quay,  past  the  signal  masts, 
the  fortified  towers,  pushing  through  the  throng 
of  sailors,  courtesans,  philosophers,  fruitsellers, 
soldiers,  beggars,  and  idle  rich  toward  the  spa- 
cious city.  Past  the  palace  to  the  wall  of  the 
Canal,  along  the  banks  of  the  Royal  Port,  they 
finally  struck  into  a  broad,  deserted  avenue.  At 
its  head  was  a  garden  wall.  Philo  introduced 
himself  and  his  companion  through  a  low  door 
and  presently  they  were  both  in  an  apartment 
full  of  parchments,  glittering  brass  and  gold 
instruments  all  reposing  on  a  wide,  long  table. 

"  Hyzlo,"  said  the  Jewish  philosopher,  in  his 
slightly  accented  Greek,  "  I  have  long  promised 
you  that  I  would  reveal  to  you  my  secret,  my 
life  work.  I  am  downcast  by  sadness.  Rome 
is  full  of  warring  cults,  Greek,  African,  Baby- 
lonian, Buddhistic;  the  writings  of  the  great 
teachers,  the  masters,  Heraclitus,  Zeno,  Anaxag- 
oras,  Plato,  Socrates,  Epictetus,  Seneca,  are  over- 
laid with  heretical  emendations.  The  religion  of 
my  fellow-countrymen  is  a  fiery  furnace,  Jerusa- 
lem a  den  of  warring  thieves.  The  rulers  of  earth 
179 


VISIONARIES 

are  weary  and  turn  a  deaf  ear  on  their  peoples. 
The  time  is  ripe  for  revolt.  Sick  of  the  accursed 
luxury  and  debauchery,  fearful  of  the  threatening 
barbarians  from  Asia  and  the  boreal  regions,  who 
are  hemming  the  civilized  world,  waiting  like 
vultures  for  the  first  sign  of  weakness  to  destroy 
everything,  the  slaves  in  revolt  —  all  these  im- 
pending terrors  assure  me  that  the  end  of  the 
old  order  is  at  hand.  But  what  will  become  of 
the  new  if  there  is  no  central  belief  to  steady 
the  ensanguined  hands  of  furious  mobs  ?  For 
years  I  have  bethought  me  of  a  drama,  a  gigan- 
tic world-drama  which  shall  embody  all  the 
myths  of  mankind,  all  the  noblest  thoughts  of 
the  philosophers.  I  shall  take  the  Buddha 
myth,  surely  the  supreme  myth,  and  transpose 
its  characters  to  Jerusalem.  A  humble  Jew 
shall  be  my  Buddha.  He  shall  be  my  revenge 
on  our  conquerors ;  for  my  people  have  been 
trampled  upon  by  the  insolent  Romans,  and 
who  knows — a  Jewish  God,  a  crucified  God, 
may  be  worshipped  in  the  stead  of  Jupiter  and 
his  vile  pantheon  of  gods  and  goddesses  !  One 
God,  the  son  of  Jahveh  who  comes  upon  earth 
to  save  mankind,  is  crucified  and  killed,  is  resur- 
rected and  like  Elijah  is  caught  up  to  heaven  in 
a  fiery  chariot.  But  you  know  the  usual  style 
of  these  Asiatic  legends !  They  are  all  alike ; 
a  virgin  birth,  a  miraculous  life,  and  transfigura- 
tion. That  sums  up  myths  from  Adonis  to 
Krishna,  from  Krishna  to  Buddha ;  though 
Monotheism  comes  from  the  Hebrews,  the 
180 


THE  THIRD   KINGDOM 

Trinity  from  the  Indians,  and  the  logos  was 
developed  by  Plato.  Where  I  am  original  is 
that  I  make  my  hero  a  Jew  —  the  Jews  are  still 
half-cracked  enough  to  believe  in  the  coming  of 
a  Messiah.  And  to  compass  a  fine  dramatic 
moment  I  have  introduced  an  incident  I  once 
witnessed  in  Alexandria  at  the  landing  of  King 
Agrippa,  when  the  populace  dressed  up  a  vaga- 
bond named  Karabas  as  a  mock  king  and  stuck 
upon  his  head  papyrus  leaves  for  a  crown,  in 
his  hand  a  reed  for  a  sceptre,  and  then  saluted 
him  as  king.  I  shall  make  my  Jew-God  seized 
by  the  Jews,  his  own  blood  and  kin,  given  over 
to  the  Romans,  mocked,  reviled,  and  set  aside 
for  some  thief  who  shall  be  called  Karabas. 
Then,  rejected,  he  shall  be  crucified,  he  a  god 
born  of  a  virgin,  by  the  very  people  who  are 
looking  for  their  Messiah.  He  is  their  Messiah  ; 
yet  they  know  it  not.  They  shall  never  know  it. 
That  shall  be  their  tragedy,  the  tragedy  of  my 
race,  which,  notwithstanding  the  prophecies, 
turned  its  back  upon  the  Messiah  because  he 
came  not  clothed  in  the  purple  of  royalty.  Is 
that  not  a  magnificent  idea  for  a  drama  ? " 

"  Excellent,"  answered  Hyzlo,  in  a  critical 
tone;  "but  continue!" 

"You  seem  without  enthusiasm,  Hyzlo.  I 
tell  you  that  ^Eschylus,  Sophocles,  or  Euripides 
never  conceived  a  story  more  infinitely  dramatic 
or  pathetic,  or  —  thanks  to  my  Hebraic  blood  — 
so  suffused  with  tragic  irony.  I  shall  make  a 
very  effective  tableau  at  the  death;  on  some 
181 


VISIONARIES 

forbidding  stony  hill  near  Jerusalem  I  shall  plant 
my  crucified  hero,  and  near  him  a  converted 
courtesan — ah!  what  a  master  of  the  theatre 
I  am !  —  in  company  with  a  handful  of  faithful 
disciples.  The  others  have  run  away  to  save 
their  cowardly  skins  in  the  tumult.  The  mobs 
that  hailed  him  as  King  of  the  Jews  now  taunt 
him,  after  the  manner  of  all  mobs.  His  early 
life  I  shall  borrow  outright  from  the  Buddha 
legends.  He  shall  be  born  of  a  virgin ;  he  shall 
live  in  the  desert;  as  a  child  he  shall  confute 
learned  doctors  in  the  temple ;  and  later  in  the 
desert  he  shall  be  tempted  by  a  demon.  All 
this  is  at  hand.  My  chief  point  is  the  philoso- 
phies in  which  I  shall  submerge  my  characters. 

"  My  hero  shall  be  the  logos  of  Heraclitus 
with  the  superadded  authority  of  the  Hebrew 
high  priest.  You  may  recall  the  fact  that  I 
greatly  admire  the  Essenes  and  their  system. 
My  deity  is  a  pure  essence;  not  Jehovah  the 
protector  or  avenger.  The  logos t  or  mediator, 
I  have  borrowed  from  the  writings  of  the  Greek 
philosophers.  This  logos  returns  to  the  bosom 
of  God  after  the  sacrifice.  Greek  philosophy 
combined  with  Hebraic  moral  principles !  Ah  ! 
it  is  grand  synthesis;  Seneca  with  his  conception 
of  a  perfected  humanity,  Lucretius,  Manlius  — 
who  called,  rightfully  too,  Epicurus  a  god  — 
and  Heraclitus  with  the  first  idea  of  a  logos :  all 
these  ancient  ideas  I  have  worked  into  my 
romantic  play,  including  the  old  cult  of  the 
Trinities ;  the  Buddhistic :  Buddha,  Dharma, 
182 


THE  THIRD   KINGDOM 

and  Saingha ;  the  Chinese  :  Heaven,  Earth,  and 
Emperor ;  the  Babylonian :  Ea,  the  father, 
Marduk,  the  son,  and  the  Fire  God,  Gibil,  who  is 
also  the  Paraclete.  So  my  philosophy  is  merely 
a  continuation  and  modification  of  that  taught  by 
Heraclitus  and  Plato,  but  with  a  Jewish  back- 
ground —  for  mine  is  the  only  moral  nation.  The 
wisdom  of  the  Rabbis,  their  Monotheism  and 
ethics,  are  all  there."  His  eyes  were  ablaze. 

"  You  are  very  erudite,  Philo  Judaeus !  "  ex- 
claimed his  listener;  "but,  tell  me,  is  there  no 
actual  foundation  for  your  Jewish  god  ?  "  Hyzlo 
eagerly  awaited  a  reply,  though  he  could  not 
account  for  this  curiosity. 

"Yes,"  answered  Philo,  lightly,  "there  is,  I 
freely  acknowledge,  a  slight  foundation.  Some 
years  ago  in  Jerusalem  they  arrested  a  poverty- 
stricken  fanatic,  the  son  of  a  Jewess.  His  father 
was  said  to  have  been  an  indigent  and  aged  car- 
penter. This  Joshua,  or  leshua,  was  driven  out 
of  Jerusalem,  and  he  took  refuge  among  a  lot  of 
poor  fishermen  on  Lake  Gennesareth.  There  he 
joined  a  sect  called  the  Baptists,  because  their 
founder,  a  socialist  named  loakanaan,  poured 
water  on  the  heads  of  the  converted.  leshua 
never  married  and  was  suspected  of  idolatrous 
practices,  which  he  had  absorbed  from  hermits 
of  the  Egyptian  ThebaYd.  Josephus,  a  wise 
friend  and  companion  of  my  youth,  wrote  me 
these  details.  He  said  that  leshua  disappeared 
after  his  mad  attempt  to  take  Jerusalem  by 
storm,  riding  —  as  is  depicted  the  Bona  Dea  — 

183 


VISIONARIES 

on  the  back  of  a  humble  animal.  Yet,  if  you 
wish  to  appeal  to  the  common  folk,  make  your 
hero  a  deposed  king  or  divinity,  who  walks 
familiarly  among  the  poor,  as  walked  the  gods 
at  the  dawn  of  time  with  the  daughters  of  men. 
I  depict  my  protagonist  as  a  half-cracked  Jew. 
I  call  him  lesus Christos  —  after  Krishna;  and 
this  poor  man's  god  proposes  to  redeem  the 
world,  to  place  the  lowly  in  the  seats  of  the 
mighty  —  he  is  an  Anarchos,  as  they  would  say 
in  Athens.  He  promises  the  Kingdom  of  God 
to  those  who  follow  him ;  but  only  a  few  do. 
He  is  the  friend  of  outcasts,  prostitutes,  crimi- 
nals. And  though  he  does  not  triumph  on  earth, 
nevertheless  he  is  the  spiritual  ruler  of  earth ; 
he  is  the  Son  of  the  Trinity  which  comprises  the 
Father  and  Holy  Ghost.  The  contending  forces 
to  my  hero  will  be  incarnated  by  Pontius  Pilatus, 
the  Roman  governor,  and  Judas  of  Kerioth,  a  very 
dangerous  and  powerful  Hebrew  politician  —  a 
man  of  very  liberal  ideas,  one  who  believed  in 
the  supremacy  of  the  West.  What  a  glorious 
play  it  will  make !  I  have  named  it  The  Third 
Kingdom,  Hyzlo.  What  a  glorious  idea  it  is, 
Hyzlo  —  the  greatest  drama  the  world  has  ever 
witnessed ! " 

III 
THE  DOVE 

"  The  greatest    drama    the   world   has   evel 
witnessed"  .  .  .  mumbled    his    disciple.  .  .  . 
184 


THE  THIRD  KINGDOM 

The  sun  still  shone  on  the  cold  stone  flagging, 
and  upon  the  wall  facing  him  hung  the  crucifix. 
But  the  motes  no  longer  danced  merrily  in  the 
light.  Evening  was  setting  in  apace,  and 
Hyzlo,  accepting  one  dream  as  equal  in  veracity 
with  the  other,  crossed  to  the  embrasure  and, 
his  elbows  on  the  sill,  watched  the  sun  —  looking 
like  a  sulphur-coloured  cymbal  — sink  behind  the 
sky-line.  He  was  still  in  the  same  attitude  when 
the  blue  of  the  heavens  —  ah !  but  not  that  gor- 
geous, hard  Alexandrian  blue  —  melted  into  pea- 
cock and  cool  saffron  hues.  He  mused  aloud  :  — 
"  By  the  very  nature  of  his  mental  organs 
man  can  never  grasp  reality.  It  is  always  the 
sensation,  never  the  real  thing,  he  feels.  The 
metaphysicians  are  right.  We  can  never  know 
the  actual  world  outside  of  ourselves.  We  are 
imprisoned  in  a  dream  cage  ;  the  globe  itself 
is  a  cage  of  echoes.  Science,  instead  of  con- 
tradicting religion,  has  but  affirmed  its  truths. 
Matter  is  radiant  energy  —  matter  is  electric 
phenomenon.  The  germ-plasma  from  which  we 
stem  —  the  red  clay  of  Genesis  —  is  eternal. 
The  individual  is  sacrificed  to  the  species.  The 
species  never  dies.  And  how  beautifully  logical 
is  the  order  of  our  ancestry  as  demonstrated  by 
the  science  of  embryology.  Fish,  batrachians, 
reptiles,  mammals ;  in  which  latter  are  included 
the  marsupials  as  well  as  lemurs,  primates, 
Man.  And  after  what  struggles  Man  assumed 
an  erect  position  and  looked  into  the  eyes  of 
his  mate !  After  Man  ?  Nietzsche  preaches 

185 


VISIONARIES 

that  man  is  a  link  between  the  primate  and  Super- 
man; Superman — the  angels!  But  intelli- 
gence in  man  may  be  an  accident  caused  by 
over-nutrition,  the  brain  developing  from  rich 
phosphors.  If  this  were  so  —  how  would  fall 
to  earth  our  house  of  pride  !  Are  we  so  close 
to  the  animal  ?  But  Quinton  proves  that  after 
man  in  the  zoological  series  comes  the  bird. 
Birds  —  half  reptiles,  half  angels.  Angels  !  Do 
evolution  and  revelation  meet  here  on  common 
ground  ?  Or  was  Joachim,  the  Abbot  of  Flores, 
inspired  when  he  wrote  of  the  Third  Kingdom, 
that  Kingdom  in  which  the  empire  of  the  flesh  is 
swallowed  up  in  the  empire  of  the  spirit ;  that 
Third  Kingdom  in  which  the  twin-natured  shall 
reign,  as  Ibsen  declares ;  the  Messiah  —  neither 
Emperor  nor  Redeemer,  but  the  Emperor-God. 
The  slime  shall  become  sap  and  the  sap  become 
spirit !  From  gorilla  to  God !  Man  in  the 
coming  Third  Kingdom  may  say:  "I,  too,  am 
a  god."  But  is  this  not  blasphemous  ?  And 
after  the  wheel  of  the  universe  has  again 
revolved,  will  I  see,  as  foresaw  Nietzsche,  the 
selfsame  spider,  the  same  moonlight  ?  There 
is  nothing  new  under  the  sun,  says  Ecclesiastes. 
Wretched  man  is  never  to  know  the  entire  truth 
but  will  be  always  at  daggers  drawn  with  his 
destiny.  After  classic  Paganism  came  romantic 
Christianity ;  after  the  romantic  will  the  pendu- 
lum swing  back  —  or  —  alas !  is  there  coming 
another  horde  of  atheists  with  a  new  Attila  at 
their  head  ? " 

186 


THE  THIRD   KINGDOM 

He  threw  himself  before  the  crucifix  and 
sobbed. 

"  Lord  Jesus,  Our  Christ !  Thou  art  the  real 
Christ  and  not  the  fiction  of  that  supersubtle 
Greek-Jewish  and  boastful  philosopher  in  Alex- 
andria !  Make  for  me,  O  God,  a  sign !  Give 
me  back  in  all  its  purity  my  faith ;  faith,  noblest 
gift  of  all !  Oh  !  to  hear  once  more  the  thrill- 
ing of  the  harps  divine,  whereon  the  dawn  plays, 
those  precursors  of  the  Eternal  Harmony !  Gloria 
in  Excelsis"  He  remained  prostrate,  his  heart 
no  longer  battered  by  doubts  and  swimming  in 
blissful  love  for  his  crucified  God.  The  celestial 
hurricane  subsided  in  his  bosom ;  he  arose  and 
again  interrogated  the  heavens.  The  stars  in 
the  profound  splendours  of  the  sky  stared  at 
him  like  the  naked  eyes  of  houris.  Suddenly  a 
vast  white  cloud  sailed  over  the  edge  of  the 
horizon  and  as  it  approached  his  habitation 
assumed  the  shape  of  a  monstrous  dove,  its 
fleecy  wings  moving  in  solemn  rhythms.  In  the 
resurgence  of  his  hopes  this  apparition  was  the 
coveted  sign  from  the  Almighty. 

And  flat  upon  the  floor  of  his  cell,  his  face 
abased  in  the  dust,  Hyzlo  worshipped  in  epilep- 
tic frenzy,  crying  aloud,  after  the  manner  of  the 
sad-tongued  Preacher :  — 

"The  thing  that  hath  been,  it  is  that  which 
shall  be ! " 


187 


XI 

THE   HAUNTED    HARPSICHORD 

[In  the  Style  of  Mock-Mediaeval  Fiction] 

I  TOLD  Michael  to  look  sharply  to  his  horse. 
It  was  dusk;  a  few  bits  of  torn  clouds,  unre- 
solved modulations  of  nebulous  lace,  trembled 
over  the  pink  pit  in  the  west,  wherein  had  sunk 
the  sun ;  and  one  evening  star,  silver  pointed, 
told  the  tale  of  another  spent  day. 

Michael  was  surly,  I  was  impatient,  and  the 
groom,  who  lagged  in  the  rear,  whistled  softly  ; 
but  I  knew  that  both  men  were  tired  and  hungry, 
and  so  were  the  horses.  The  road,  hard  and  free 
from  dust,  echoed  the  resilient  hoof-falls  of  our 
beasts.  The  early  evening  was  finely  cool,  for 
it  was  the  month  of  September.  We  had  lost 
our  way.  Green  fields  on  either  side,  and  be- 
fore us  the  path  declined  down  a  steep  slope, 
that  lost  itself  in  huddled  foliage. 

Michael  spoke  up :  — 

"  We  are  astray.  I  knew  this  damnable  ex- 
cursion would  lead  to  no  good." 

I  gently  chided  him.      "  Pooh,  you  braggart ! 
Even  Arnold,  who  rides  a  brute  a  world  too  wide 
for  him,  has  not  uttered  a  complaint.      Brave 
Michael,  if  her  ladyship  heard  you  now  ! " 
188 


THE  HAUNTED  HARPSICHORD 

His  face  grew  hard  as  he  muttered  :  — 

"Her  ladyship  !  may  all  the  saints  in  the 
calendar  watch  over  her  ladyship  !  But  I  wish 
she  had  never  taken  you  at  your  hot-headed 
word.  Then  we  would  not  have  launched  upon 
this  madcap  adventure." 

I  grew  stern.  "Her  ladyship,  I  bid  you  re- 
member, my  worthy  man,  is  our  mistress,  and  it 
ill  behooves  you  to  question  her  commands, 
especially  in  the  presence  of  a  groom." 

Michael  growled,  and  then  the  sudden  turn 
in  the  road  startled  our  horses  on  a  gallop,  and 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  we  thrashed  our  way 
ahead  in  the  twilight.  We  had  entered  a  small 
thicket  when  an  ejaculation  from  Arnold  —  who 
had  been  riding  abreast  —  brought  us  all  up  to 
a  sharp  standstill. 

"There's  a  light,"  said  the  groom, in  a  most 
tranquil  manner,  pointing  his  heavy  crop  stick 
to  the  left.  How  we  had  missed  seeing  the  inn 
from  the  crest  of  the  hill  was  strange.  A  hun- 
dred yards  away  stood  a  low,  red-tiled  house, 
with  lights  burning  downstairs,  and  an  unmis- 
takable air  of  hostlery  for  man  and  beast.  We 
veered  at  once  in  our  course,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes were  hallooing  for  the  host  or  the  hostler. 

"Now  I  hope  that  you  are  satisfied,  my 
friend,"  I  said  exultantly  to  Michael,  who  only 
grunted  as  he  swung  off  his  animal.  Arnold 
followed,  and  soon  we  were  chatting  with  an 
amiable  old  man  in  a  white  cap  and  apron,  who 
had  run  out  of  the  house  when  we  shouted. 
189 


VISIONARIES 

"Amboise?"  he  answered  me  when  I  told 
him  of  our  destination.  "Amboise;  why,  sirrah, 
you  are  a  good  five  leagues  from  Amboise  ! 
Step  within  and  remain  here  for  the  night.  I 
have  plenty  of  convenience  for  you  and  your 
suite." 

I  glanced  at  Michael,  but  he  was  busily  em- 
ployed in  loosening  his  pistols  from  the  holster, 
and  Arnold,  in  company  with  a  lame  man,  led 
the  horses  to  the  stable.  There  was  little  use 
in  vain  regrets.  The  other  had  the  start  of  the 
half -day,  and  surely  we  could  go  no  further  that 
night.  I  gritted  my  teeth  as  the  little  fat  land- 
lord led  us  into  the  house. 

In  half  an  hour  we  were  smoking  our  pipes 
before  a  lively  fire  —  the  night  had  grown  chilly 
—  and  enjoying  silent  recollections  of  a  round 
of  beef  and  several  bottles  of  fortifying  burgundy. 

Our  groom  had  gone  to  bed,  and  I  soon  saw 
that  I  could  get  nothing  out  of  Michael  for  the 
present.  He  stared  moodily  into  the  fire.  I 
noticed  that  his  pistols  were  handy.  The  host 
came  in  and  asked  my  permission  to  join  us.  He 
felt  lonely,  he  explained,  for  he  was  a  widower, 
and  his  only  son  was  away  in  the  world  some- 
where. I  was  very  glad  to  ease  myself  with 
gossip;  my  heart  was  not  quite  at  peace  with 
this  expedition  of  ours.  I  knew  what  her  lady- 
ship asked  of  us  was  much,  so  much  that  only 
a  bold  spirit  and  a  thirst  for  the  unknown  could 
pardon  the  folly  of  the  chase. 

I  bade  the  innkeeper  to  take  a  seat  at  the  fire, 
190 


THE  HAUNTED  HARPSICHORD 

and  soon  we  fell  to  chatting  like  ladies',  maids. 
He  was  a  Norman  and  curious  as  a  cat.  He 
opened  his  inquiries  delicately. 

"  You  have  ridden  far  and  fast  to-day,  my  sir. 
Your  horses  were  all  but  done  for.  Yet  there 
is  no  cloud  of  war  in  the  sky  and  you  are  too 
far  from  Paris  to  be  honourable  envoys.  I  hope 
you  like  our  country  ? " 

I  dodged  his  tentative  attempt  at  prying  by 
asking  him  a  question  myself. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  have  many  guests,  good 
host  ?  Yet  do  I  hardly  wonder  at  it.  You  are 
all  but  swallowed  up  in  the  green  and  too  far 
from  the  main  travelled  road." 

The  little  man  sighed  and  said  in  sad  accents : 
"  Too  true,  yet  the  Scarlet  Dragon  was  once  a 
thriving  place,  a  fine  money-breeding  house. 
Before  my  son  went  away  —  " 

I  interrupted  him.  "Your  son,  what  is  he, 
and  where  is  he  now  ?  " 

The  other  became  visibly  agitated  and  puffed 
at  his  pipe  some  minutes  before  replying. 

"  Alas !  worthy  sir,"  he  said  at  last  in  a  lower 
key,  "  my  son  dare  not  return  here  for  reasons 
I  cannot  divulge.  Indeed,  this  was  no  cheerful 
house  for  the  boy.  He  had  his  ambitions  and 
he  left  me  to  pursue  them." 

"What  does  he  do,  this  youngster?"  inter- 
rupted Michael,  in  his  gruffest  tones.  The 
landlord  started. 

"Indeed,  good  sir,  I  could  not  tell  you,  for 
I  know  not  myself." 

191 


VISIONARIES 

"  Humph  ! "  grunted  my  sullen  companion ; 
but  I  observed  his  suspicious  little  eyes  fixed 
persistently  on  the  man  of  the  inn. 

I  turned  the  talk,  which  had  threatened  to 
languish.  The  old  man  did  not  relish  the  ques- 
tions about  his  son,  and  began  deploring  the 
poor  crops.  At  this  juncture  an  indefinable 
feeling  that  we  were  losing  time  in  stopping  at 
this  lonely  place  came  over  me.  I  am  not 
superstitious,  but  I  swear  that  I  felt  ill  at  ease 
and  confused  in  my  plans. 

On  bended  knee  I  had  sworn  to  my  lady  that 
I  would  bring  back  to  her  the  fugitive  un- 
harmed, and  I  would  never  return  to  her  empty- 
handed,  confessing  failure.  Michael's  queer 
behaviour  disconcerted  me.  From  the  outset  of 
the  chase  he  had  turned  sour  and  inaccessible, 
and  now  he  was  so  ill-tempered  that  I  feared  he 
would  pick  a  quarrel  at  the  slightest  provocation 
with  our  host. 

With  a  strange  sinking  at  the  heart  I  asked 
about  our  horses. 

"  They  will  be  attended  to,  my  sirs ;  my  ser- 
vant is  a  good  boy.  He  is  handy,  although  he 
can't  get  about  lively,  for  he  was  thrown  in  a 
turnip  field  from  our  only  donkey." 

I  was  in  no  mood  for  this  sort  of  chatter  and 
quizzed  the  fellow  as  to  our  beds. 

"We  must  be  off  early  in  the  morning;  we 
have  important  business  to  transact  at  Amboise 
before  the  sun  sets  to-morrow,"  I  testily  re- 
marked. 

192 


THE  HAUNTED  HARPSICHORD 

"At  Amboise  —  h'm,  h'm  !  Well,  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  that  you  can  reach  Amboise 
by  stroke  of  noon ;  and  so  you  have  business  at 
Amboise,  eh  ? " 

I  saw  Michael's  brow  lower  at  this  whee- 
dling little  man's  question,  and  answered  rather 
hastily  and  imprudently  :  — 

"  Yes,  business,  my  good  man,  important 
business,  as  you  will  see  when  we  return 
this  road  to-morrow  night  with  the  prize  we 
are  after." 

Michael  jumped  up  and  cried  "  Damnation !  " 
and  I  at  once  saw  my  mistake.  The  landlord's 
manner  instantly  altered.  He  looked  at  me  tri- 
umphantly and  said :  — 

"  Beds,  beds !  but,  my  honoured  sirs,  I  have 
no  beds  in  the  house.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that 
no  guest  has  been  upstairs  in  years,  for  certain 
reasons.  Indeed,  sirs,  I  am  so  embarrassed !  I 
should  have  told  you  at  once  I  have  only  a  day 
trade.  My  regular  customers  would  not  dare  to 
stop  here  over  night,  as  the  house,"  —  here  a 
cunning,  even  sinister,  look  spread  over  the 
fellow's  fat  face  —  "the  house  bears  an  evil 
reputation." 

Michael  started  and  crossed  himself,  but  not 
I.  I  suspected  some  deep  devilry  and  deter- 
mined to  discover  it. 

"  So  ho  ?     Haunted,  eh  ?     Well,  ghosts  and 

old  women's  stories  shan't  make  me  budge  until 

dawn.     Go  fetch  more  wine  and  open  it  here, 

mine  host  of  the   Scarlet  Dragon,"  I    roared. 

193 


VISIONARIES 

The    little   man  was   nonplussed,   hesitated    a 
moment,  and  then  trotted  off. 

I  saw  that  Michael  was  at  last  aroused. 

"  What  diabolical  fooling  is  this  ?  If  the  place 
is  haunted,  I'm  off." 

"  I'm  damned  if  I  am,"  I  said  quite  bravely, 
and  more  wine  appeared.  We  both  sat  down. 

The  air  had  become  nipping,  and  the  blaze 
on  the  hearth  was  reassuring.  Besides,  the 
wind  was  querulous,  and  I  didn't  fancy  a  ride 
at  midnight,  even  if  my  lady's  quest  were  an 
urgent  one. 

Michael  held  his  peace  as  the  wine  was 
poured  out,  and  I  insisted  on  the  landlord  drink- 
ing with  us.  We  finished  two  bottles,  and  I  sent 
for  more.  I  foresaw  that  sleep  was  out  of  the 
question,  and  so  determined  to  make  a  night  of  it. 

"  Touching  upon  this  ghost,"  I  began,  when 
the  other  bade  me  in  God's  name  not  to  jest. 
There  were  some  things,  he  said,  not  to  be 
broached  in  honest  Christian  company. 

"  A  fig  for  your  scruples !  "  I  cried,  emptying 
my  glass  ;  my  head  was  hot  and  I  felt  bold.  "  A 
fig,  I  say,  for  your  bogie-man  nonsense !  Tell 
me  at  what  time  doth  this  phantom  choose  to 
show  itself."  The  landlord  shivered  and  drew 
his  seat  closer  to  the  fire. 

"  Oh,  sir,  do  not  jest !  What  I  tell  you  is  no 
matter  for  rude  laughter.  Begging  your  pardon 
for  my  offer,  if  you  will  be  patient,  I  will  relate 
to  you  the  story,  and  how  my  misfortune  came 
from  this  awful  visitant." 
194 


THE  HAUNTED  HARPSICHORD 

Even  Michael  seemed  placated,  and  after  I 
nodded  my  head  in  token  of  assent  the  landlord 
related  to  us  this  story  :  — 

Once  upon  a  time,  sirs,  when  the  great  and 
good  Louis,  sixteenth  of  his  name,  was  King  of 
France,  this  domain  was  the  property  of  the 
Duke  of  Langlois.  The  duke  was  proud  and 
rich,  and  prouder  and  haughtier  was  his  duchess, 
who  was  born  Berri.  Ah !  they  were  mighty 
folk  then,  before  the  Revolution  came  with  its 
sharp  axes  to  clip  off  their  heads.  This  inn  was 
the  stable  of  the  chateau,  which  stood  off  yonder 
in  the  woods.  Alas !  nothing  remains  of  it  to- 
day but  a  few  blackened  foundations,  for  it  was 
burned  to  the  earth  by  the  red  devils  in  '93. 
But  at  the  time  I  speak  of,  the  chateau  was  a 
big,  rich  palace,  full  of  gay  folk ;  all  the  nobility 
came  there,  and  the  duchess  ruled  the  land. 

She  was  crazy  for  music,  and  to  such  lengths 
did  she  go  in  her  madness  that  she  even  invited 
as  her  guests  celebrated  composers  and  singers. 
The  duke  was  old-fashioned  and  hated  those 
crazy  people  who  lived  only  to  hum  and  strum. 
He  would  have  none  of  them,  and  quarrels  with 
his  duchess  were  of  daily  occurrence.  Indeed, 
sirs,  so  bad  did  it  become  that  he  swore  that 
he  would  leave  the  house  if  Messire  Gluck,  or 
Messire  Piccini,  or  any  of  the  other  strolling 
vagabonds  —  so  the  duke  called  them  —  entered 
his  chateau.  And  he  kept  his  word,  did  the 
duke.  The  Chevalier  Gluck,  a  fine,  shapely 
195 


VISIONARIES 

man,  was  invited  down  by  the  duchess  and 
amused  her  and  her  guests  by  playing  his  won- 
derful tunes  on  the  beautiful  harpsichord  in  the 
great  salon. 

The  duke  would  have  none  of  this  nonsense 
and  went  to  Paris,  where  he  amused  himself 
gambling  and  throwing  gold  into  his  mistresses' 
laps.  The  duchess  kept  right  on,  and  then  the 
gossips  of  the  neighbourhood  began  to  wag  their 
busy  tongues.  The  lady  of  the  chateau  was 
getting  very  fine  pleasure  from  the  company  of 
the  handsome  Austrian  chevalier.  It  was  whis- 
pered that  the  Queen  Marie  Antoinette  had 
looked  with  favourable  eyes  upon  the  composer, 
and,  furthermore,  had  lent  him  certain  moneys 
to  further  his  schemes  for  reforming  the  stage. 

Reform,  forsooth !  all  he  cared  for  was  the 
company  of  the  duchess,  and  he  vowed  that  he 
could  make  better  music  at  the  chateau  than  up 
in  noisy  Paris.  On  a  fine  afternoon  it  is  said  that 
it  was  no  uncommon  sight  to  see  the  chevalier, 
all  togged  up  in  his  bravest  court  costume,  sword 
and  all,  sitting  at  his  harpsichord,  playing  ravish- 
ing music.  This  was  out  in  the  pretty  little  park 
back  of  the  chateau,  and  the  duchess  would  sit 
at  Gluck's  side  and  pour  out  champagne  for 
him.  All  this  may  have  been  idle  talk,  but  at 
last  the  duke  got  wind  of  the  rumours,  and  one 
night  he  surprised  the  pair  playing  a  duo  at  the 
harpsichord,  and  stabbed  them  both  dead. 

Since  then  the  chateau  was  burned  down,  but 
the  place  has  been  haunted.  I,  myself,  good 
196 


THE  HAUNTED  HARPSICHORD 

gentlemen,   have   heard   ghostly   music,  and   I 
swear  to  you  — 

"  Oh,  my  God,  listen,  listen !  " 

"  What  pagan  nonsense !  "  blurted  out  Michael. 

I  cautioned  silence,  and  we  all  listened.  The 
old  man  had  slid  off  his  chair,  and  his  face  was 
chalky  white.  Michael's  ugly  mouth  was  half 
opened  in  his  black  beard,  and  I  confess  that  I 
felt  rather  chilly. 

Music,  faint,  tinkling,  we  certainly  heard.  It 
came  with  the  wind  in  little  sobs,  and  then  silence 
settled  upon  us. 

"  It's  the  Chevalier  Gluck,  and  he  is  playing  to 
his  duchess  out  in  the  fields.  See,  I  will  open  the 
door  and  show  you,"  whispered  the  fat  landlord. 

He  went  slowly  to  the  door,  and  we  followed 
him  breathlessly.  The  door  was  pushed  open, 
and  we  peered  out.  The  wind  was  still  high, 
and  the  moon  rode  among  rolling  boulders  of 
yellow,  fleecy  clouds. 

"  There,  there,  over  yonder,  look ;  Mother  of 
Christ,  look  at  the  ghost ! "  the  old  man  pointed 
a  shaking  hand. 

Just  then  the  moonlight  was  blackened  by  a 
big  cloud,  and  we  heard  the  tinkling  music  of  a 
harpsichord  again,  but  could  see  naught.  The 
sounds  were  plainer  now,  and  presently  resolved 
into  the  rhythmic  accents  of  a  gavotte.  But  it 
seemed  far  away  and  very  plaintive  ! 

"  Hark,"    said    Michael,    in   a    hoarse    voice. 
"  That's  the  gavotte  from  Pagliacci.       Listen ! 
Don't  you  remember  it  ?  " 
197 


VISIONARIES 

"  Pshaw !  "  I  said  roughly,  for  my  nerves  were 
all  astir.  "  It's  the  Alceste  music  of  Gluck." 

"Look,  look,  gentlemen!"  called  our  host, 
and  as  the  moon  glowed  again  in  the  blue  we 
saw  at  the  edge  of  the  forest  a  white  figure,  saw 
it,  I  swear,  although  it  vanished  at  once  and  the 
music  ceased.  I  started  to  follow,  but  Michael 
and  the  old  man  seized  my  arms,  the  door  was 
closed  with  a  crash,  and  we  found  ourselves 
staring  blankly  into  the  fire,  all  feeling  a  bit 
shaken  up. 

It  was  Michael's  turn  to  speak.  "  You  may 
do  what  you  please,  but  I  stay  here  for  the  night, 
no  sleep  for  me,"  and  he  placed  his  pistols  on  his 
knee. 

I  looked  at  the  landlord  and  I  thought  I  saw 
an  expression  of  disappointment  on  his  face,  but 
I  was  not  sure.  He  made  some  excuse  about 
being  tired  and  went  out  of  the  room.  We  spent 
the  rest  of  the  night  in  gloomy  silence.  We  did 
not  speak  five  words,  for  I  saw  that  conversation 
only  irritated  my  companion. 

At  dawn  we  walked  into  the  sweet  air  and 
I  called  loudly  for  Arnold,  who  looked  sleepy 
and  out  of  sorts  when  he  appeared.  The  fat  old 
man  came  to  see  us  off  and  smilingly  accepted 
the  silver  I  put  into  his  hand  for  our  night's 
reckoning. 

"  Au  revoir,  my  old  friend,"  I  said  as  I  pressed 

the  unnecessary  spur  into  my  horse's  flank.    "  Au 

revoir,  and  look  out  for  the  ghost  of  the  gallant 

Chevalier  Gluck.      Tell   him,  with  my  compli- 

198 


THE  HAUNTED  HARPSICHORD 

ments,  not  to  play  such  latter-day  tunes  as  the 
gavotte  from  Pagliacci." 

"  Oh,  I'll  tell  him,  you  may  be  sure,"  said  he, 
quite  dryly. 

We  saluted  and  dashed  down  the  road  to 
Amboise,  where  we  hoped  to  capture  our  rare 
prize. 

We  had  ridden  about  a  mile  when  a  dog  at- 
tempted to  cross  our  path.  We  all  but  ran  the 
poor  brute  down. 

"  Why,  it's  lame !  "  exclaimed  Arnold. 

"  Oh,  if  it  were  but  a  lame  man,  instead  of  a 
dog  !  "  fervently  said  the  groom,  who  was  in  the 
secret  of  our  quest. 

A  horrid  oath  rang  out  on  the  smoky  morn- 
ing air.  Michael,  his  wicked  eyes  bulging 
fiercely,  his  thick  neck  swollen  with  rage,  was 
cursing  like  the  army  in  Flanders,  as  related  by 
dear  old  Uncle  Toby. 

"  Lame  man !  why,  oddsbodkins,  that  hostler 
was  lame !  Oh,  fooled,  by  God  !  cheated,  fooled, 
swindled  and  tricked  by  that  scamp  and  scullion 
of  the  inn  !  Oh,  we've  been  nicely  swindled  by 
an  old  wives'  tale  of  a  ghost !  " 

I  stared  in  sheer  amazement  at  Michael,  won- 
dering if  the  strangely  spent  night  had  upset  his 
reason.  He  could  only  splutter  out  between  his 
awful  curses :  — 

"  Gluck,  the  rascal,  the  ghost,  the  man  we're 

after !     That  harpsichord  —  the  lying  knave  — 

that  tune  —  I  swear  it  wasn't  Gluck  —  oh,  the 

rascal  has  escaped  again  !     The  ghost  story  —  - 

199 


VISIONARIES 

the  villain  was  told  to  scare  us  out  of  the  house 
—  to  put  us  off  the  track.  A  thousand  devils 
chase  the  scamp  !  "  And  Michael  let  his  head 
drop  on  the  pommel  of  his  saddle  as  he  fairly 
groaned  in  the  bitterness  of  defeat. 

I  had  just  begun  a  dignified  rebuke,  for 
Michael's  language  was  inexcusable,  when  it 
flashed  upon  me  that  we  had  been,  indeed, 
duped. 

"Ah,"  I  cried,  in  my  fury,  "of  course  we 
were  taken  in !  Of  course  his  son  was  the 
lame  hostler,  the  very  prize  we  expected  to 
bag !  O  Lord !  what  will  we  say  to  my  lady  ? 
We  are  precious  sharp !  I  ought  to  have  known 
better.  That  stuff  he  told  us !  Langlois,  pshaw, 
Berri  —  pouf !  'A  Berri  never  married  a  Lang- 
lois, and  I  might  have  remembered  that  Gluck 
wasn't  assassinated  by  a  jealous  duke.  What 
shall  we  do?" 

We  all  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  gaz- 
ing stupidly  at  the  lame  dog  that  gave  us  the 
clue.  Then  Arnold  timidly  suggested  :  — 

"  Hadn't  we  better  go  back  to  the  inn  ?  " 

Instantly  our  horses'  heads  were  turned  and 
we  galloped  madly  back  on  our  old  tracks. 
Not  a  word  was  uttered  until  we  reined  up  in 
front  of  the  lonely  house,  which  looked  more 
haunted  by  daylight  than  it  did  the  night 
before. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  suddenly  cried 
Michael. 

"  Whit  do  you  mean  ? "  I  asked. 
200 


THE  HAUNTED  HARPSICHORD 

"  Over  there,  you  blind  bat! "  he  said,  coarsely 
and  impatiently;  and  pulling  out  his  pistol  he 
fired  thrice,  and  a  low,  melodious  sound  followed 
the  reports  of  his  weapon.  When  the  smoke 
cleared  away  I  saw  that  he  had  hit  an  old 
harpsichord  which  stood  against  a  tree,  facing 
the  house. 

"  The  ghost !  "  we  yelled,  and  then  we  laughed 
consumedly.  But  the  shots  that  winged  the  old- 
fashioned  instrument  had  a  greater  result.  The 
fat  host  appeared  on  the  edge  of  the  forest,  and 
he  waved  a  large  napkin  as  a  flag  of  truce.  With 
him  was  the  lame  hostler. 

"  Mercy,  gentlemen,  mercy,  we  beseech  you ! " 
he  cried,  and  we  soon  surrounded  both  and  bound 
them  securely. 

"You  will  pay  dearly  for  the  trick  you  put 
upon  us,  my  man,"  said  Michael,  grimly,  and, 
walking  our  horses,  we  went  by  easy  stages 
toward  the  castle,  towing  our  prisoners  along. 

When  I  fetched  the  lame  man  to  my  lady,  her 
face  glowed  with  joy,  and  her  Parisian  eyes  grew 
brilliant  with  victory. 

"  So  you  tried  to  escape  ?  "  she  cruelly  asked 
of  the  poor,  cowering  wretch.  "  You  will  never 
get  another  chance,  I'll  warrant  me.  Go,  let 
the  servants  put  you  to  work  in  the  large  music 
room  first.  Begin  with  the  grands,  then  follow 
with  the  uprights.  Thank  you,  gentlemen  both, 
for  the  courage  and  finesse  you  displayed  in  this 
desperate  quest.  I'll  see  that  you  are  both  suit- 
ably rewarded."  I  fancied  that  Michael  regarded 

201 


VISIONARIES 

me  sardonically,  but  he  held  his  peace  about  the 
night's  adventures. 

We  had  indeed  reason  to  feel  flattered  at  the 
success  of  the  dangerous  expedition.  Had  we 
not  captured,  more  by  sheer  good  luck  than 
strategy,  the  only  piano-tuner  in  mediaeval 
France  ? 


109 


XII 

THE   TRAGIC   WALL 

I 

BY  THE  DARK   POOL 

IT  was  not  so  high,  the  wall,  as  massive,  not 
so  old  as  moss-covered.  After  Rudolph  C6t, 
the  painter,  had  achieved  celebrity  with  his 
historical  canvas,  The  Death  of  the  Antique 
World,  now  in  the  Louvre,  he  bought  the 
estate  of  Chalfontaine,  which  lies  at  the  junc- 
tion of  two  highroads  :  one  leading  to  Ecouen, 
the  other  to  Villiers-le-Bel.  Almost  touching 
the  end  of  the  park  on  the  Ecouen  side  there 
is  a  little  lake,  hardly  larger  than  a  pool,  and 
because  of  its  melancholy  aspect  —  sorrowful 
willows  hem  it  about,  drooping  into  stagnant 
waters  —  Monsieur  C6t  had  christened  the  spot : 
The  Dark  Tarn  of  Auber.  He  was  a  fanatical 
lover  of  Poe,  reading  him  in  the  Baudelaire 
translation,  and  openly  avowing  his  preference 
for  the  French  version  of  the  great  American's 
tales.  That  he  could  speak  only  five  words  of 
English  did  not  deter  his  associates  from  con- 
sidering him  a  profound  critic  of  literature. 

After  his  death  his  property  and  invested 
203 


J  VISIONARIES 

wealth  passed  into  the  hands  of  his  youthful 
widow,  a  charming  lady,  a  native  of  Burgundy, 
and  —  if  gossip  did  not  lie  —  a  former  model  of 
the  artist ;  indeed,  some  went  so  far  as  to  assert 
that  her  face  could  be  seen  in  her  late  husband's 
masterpiece  —  the  figure  of  a  young  Greek  slave 
attired  as  a  joyous  bacchante.  But  her  friends 
always  denied  this.  Her  dignified  bearing,  sin- 
cere sorrow  for  her  dead  husband,  and  her 
motherly  solicitude  for  her  daughter  left  no 
doubt  as  to  the  value  of  all  petty  talk.  It  was 
her  custom  of  summer  evenings  to  walk  to  the 
pool,  and  with  her  daughter  Berenice  she  would 
sit  on  the  broad  wall  and  watch  the  moon  rise, 
or  acknowledge  the  respectful  salutations  of  the 
country  folk  with  their  bran-speckled  faces.  In 
those  days  Villiers-le-Bel  was  a  dull  town  a  half- 
hour  from  Paris  on  the  Northern  Railway,  and 
about  two  miles  from  the  station. 

The  widow  was  not  long  without  offers. 
Her  usual  answer  was  to  point  out  the  tiny 
Berenice,  playing  in  the  garden  with  her  nurse. 
Then  a  landscape  painter,  one  of  the  Barbizon 
group,  appeared,  and,  as  a  former  associate  of 
Rudolph  C6t,  and  a  man  of  means  and  position, 
his  suit  was  successful.  To  the  astonishment 
of  Villiers-le-Bel,  Madame  Valerie  Cot  became 
Madame  Theophile  Mineur;  on  the  day  of  the 
wedding  little  Berenice  —  named  after  a  particu- 
larly uncanny  heroine  of  Poe's  by  his  relentless 
French  admirer — scratched  the  long  features  of 
her  stepfather.  The  entire  town  accepted  this 
204 


THE  TRAGIC  WALL 

as  a  distressing  omen  and  it  was  not  deceived ; 
Berenice  C6t  grew  up  in  the  likeness  of  a  deter- 
mined young  lady  whose  mother  weakly  endured 
her  tyranny,  whose  new  father  secretly  feared 
her. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  she  had  refused  nearly 
all  the  young  painters  between  Ecouen  and 
Domaine  de  Vallieres ;  and  had  spent  several 
summers  in  England,  and  four  years  at  a  Lau- 
sanne school.  She  feared  neither  man  nor 
mouse,  and  once,  when  she  saw  a  famous  Polish 
pianist  walking  on  his  terrace  at  Merges,  she 
took  him  by  the  hand,  asked  for  a  lock  of  his 
hair,  and  was  not  refused  by  the  amiable  vir- 
tuoso. After  that  Berenice  was  the  acknowl- 
edged leader  of  her  class.  The  teachers  trembled 
before  her  sparkling,  wrathful  black  eyes.  At 
home  she  ruled  the  household,  and  as  she  was 
an  heiress  no  one  dared  to  contradict  her.  Her 
contempt  for  her  stepfather  was  only  matched 
by  her  impatience  in  the  company  of  young 
men.  She  pretended  —  so  her  intimates  said 
—  to  loathe  them.  "Frivolous  idiots"  was  her 
mildest  form  of  reproof  when  an  ambitious  boy 
would  trench  upon  her  pet  art  theories  or  at- 
tempt to  flirt.  She  called  her  mother  "the 
lamb "  and  her  stepfather  "  the  parrot "  -  he 
had  a  long  curved  nose;  all  together  she  was 
very  unlike  the  pattern  French  girl.  Her 
favourite  lounging  place  was  the  wall,  and  after 
she  had  draped  it  with  a  scarlet  shawl  and 
perched  herself  upon  it,  she  was  only  too  happy 
205 


VISIONARIES 

to  worry  any  unfortunate  man  who  presented 
himself. 

The  night  Hubert  Falcroft  called  at  Chalfon- 
taine  Mademoiselle  Elise  Evergonde  told  him 
that  her  cousin,  Madame  Mineur,  and  Berenice 
had  gone  in  the  direction  of  the  pool.  He  had 
walked  over  from  the  station,  preferring  the 
open  air  to  the  stuffy  train.  So  a  few  vigor- 
ous steps  brought  to  his  view  mother  and  daugh- 
ter as  they  slowly  moved,  encircling  each  other's 
waist.  The  painter  paused  and  noted  the  gen- 
eral loveliness  of  the  picture;  the  setting  sun 
had  splashed  the  blue  basin  overhead  with  deli- 
cate pinks,  and  in  the  fretted  edges  of  some 
high  floating  cloud-fleece  there  was  a  glint  of  fire. 
The  smooth  grass  parquet  swept  gracefully 
to  the  semicircle  of  dark  green  trees,  against 
the  foliage  of  which  the  virginal  white  of  the 
gowns  was  transposed  to  an  ivory  tone  by  the 
blue  and  green  keys  in  sky  and  forest. 

"By  Jove !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  paint  in  the  fore- 
ground a  few  peacocks  languidly  dragging  their 
gorgeous  tails,  and  you  have  a  Watteau  or  a 
Fragonard  —  no,  a  Monticelli!  Only,  Mon- 
ticelli  would  have  made  the  peacocks  the  cen- 
tral motive  with  the  women  and  trees  as  an 
arabesque." 

He  was  a  portraitist  who  solemnly  believed  in 
the  principle  of  decoration  —  character  must  take 
its  chances  when  he  painted.  Falcroft  was  suc- 
cessful with  women's  heads,  which  he  was  fond 
of  depicting  in  misty  shadows  framed  by  luxuri- 
206 


THE  TRAGIC  WALL 

ous  accessories.  They  called  him  the  Master 
of  Chiffon,  at  Julien's;  when  he  threw  over- 
board his  old  friends  and  joined  the  new  crowd, 
their  indignation  was  great.  His  title  now  was 
the  Ribbon  Impressionist,  and  at  the  last  salon 
of  the  Independents,  Falcroft  had  the  mortifica- 
tion of  seeing  a  battalion  of  his  former  com- 
panions at  anchor  in  front  of  his  picture,  The 
Lady  with  the  Cat,  which  they  reviled  for  at 
least  an  hour.  He  was  an  American  who  had 
lived  his  life  long  in  France,  and  only  showed 
race  in  his  nervous,  brilliant  technic  and  his 
fondness  for  bizarre  subjects.  .  .  . 

He  had  not  stood  many  minutes  when  a  young 
voice  saluted  him  :  — 

"  Ah,  Monsieur  Falcroft.  Come,  come  quickly. 
Mamma  is  delighted  to  see  you  !  "  His  mental 
picture  was  decomposed  by  the  repeated  wav- 
ing of  the  famous  shawl,  which  only  came  into 
view  as  Berenice  turned.  Hubert  regretted  that 
she  had  not  worn  it  —  the  peacocks  could  have 
been  exchanged  for  its  vivid  note  of  scarlet. 
Pretending  not  to  have  heard  her  speech,  he 
gravely  saluted  the  mother  and  daughter.  But 
Berenice  was  unabashed. 

"  Mamma  was  wondering  if  you  would  visit 
us  to-night,  Monsieur  Falcroft,  when  I  saw  you 
staring  at  us  as  if  we  were  ghosts."  A  burst 
of  malicious  laughter  followed. 

"Berenice,  Berenice,"  remonstrated  her 
mother,  "when  will  you  cease  such  tasteless 
remarks !  "  She  blushed  in  her  pretty  matronly 
207 


VISIONARIES 

fashion   and   put  her  hand   on  her  daughter's 
mouth. 

"  Don't  mind  her,  Madame  Mineur!  I  like  to 
meet  a  French  girl  with  a  little  unconventionality. 
Berenice  reminds  me  now  of  an  English  girl  —  " 

"  Or  one  of  your  own  countrywomen  !  "  inter- 
rupted Berenice;  "and  please  —  Missy  after 
this,  I  am  a  grown  young  lady."  He  joined 
in  the  merriment.  She  was  not  to  be  resisted 
and  he  wished  —  no,  he  did  not  wish  —  but  he 
thought,  that  if  he  were  younger,  what  gay  days 
he  might  have.  Yet  he  admired  her  mother 
much  more.  Elaine  C6t-Mineur  was  an  old- 
fashioned  woman,  gentle,  reserved,  and  at  the 
age  when  her  beauty  had  a  rare  autumnal 
quality  —  the  very  apex  of  its  perfection;  in 
a  few  years,  in  a  year,  perhaps,  the  change 
would  come  and  crabbed  winter  set  in.  He 
particularly  admired  the  oval  of  her  face,  her 
soft  brown  eyes,  and  the  harmonious  contour  of 
her  head.  He  saw  her  instantly  with  a  painter's 
imagination  —  filmy  lace  must  modulate  about 
her  head  like  a  dreamy  aureole;  across  her 
figure  a  scarf  of  yellow  silk;  in  her  hands  he 
would  paint  a  crystal  vase,  and  in  the  vase  one 
rose  with  a  heart  of  sulphur.  And  her  eyes 
would  gaze  as  if  she  saw  the  symbol  of  her 
age  —  the  days  slipping  away  like  ropes  of 
sand  from  her  grasp.  He  could  make  a  fasci- 
nating portrait  he  thought,  and  he  said  so. 
Instantly  another  peal  of  irritating  laughter 
came  from  Berenice :  — 
208 


THE  TRAGIC  WALL 

"  Don't  tell  papa.  He  is  so  jealous  of  the 
portrait  he  tried  to  make  of  mamma  last  sum- 
mer. You  never  saw  it !  It's  awful.  It's  hid 
away  behind  a  lot  of  canvases  in  the  atelier.  It 
looks  like  a  Ce"zanne  still-life.  I'll  show  it  to 
you  sometime."  Her  mother  revealed  annoy- 
ance by  compressing  her  lips.  Falcroft  said 
nothing.  They  had  skirted  the  pool  in  single 
file,  for  the  path  was  narrow  and  the  denseness 
of  the  trees  caused  a  partial  obscurity.  When 
they  reached  the  wall,  the  moon  was  rising  in  the 
eastern  sky. 

" Uheure  exquise"  murmured  Madame  Mi- 
neur.  Berenice  wandered  down  the  road  and 
Hubert  helped  her  mother  to  the  wall,  where  he 
sat  beside  her  and  looked  at  her.  He  was  a  big, 
muscular  man  with  shaven  cheeks,  dark  eyes, 
and  plenty  of  tumbled  hair,  in  which  flecks  of 
gray  were  showing.  He  had  been  a  classmate 
of  The'ophile  Mineur,  for  whose  talents  or  per- 
sonality he  had  never  betrayed  much  liking. 
But  one  day  at  a  d/jetiner,  which  had  prolonged 
itself  until  evening,  Mineur  insisted  on  his  old 
friend — the  Burgundy  was  old,  too  —  accompa- 
nying him  to  Villiers-le-Bel,  and  not  without  a 
motive.  He  knew  Falcroft  to  be  rich,  and  he 
would  not  be  sorry  to  see  his  capricious  and 
mischievous  stepdaughter  well  settled.  But 
Falcroft  immediately  paid  court  to  Madame 
Mineur,  and  Berenice  had  to  content  herself 
with  watching  him  and  making  fun  to  her  step- 
father of  the  American  painter's  height  and  ges- 
209 


VISIONARIES 

tures.  The  visit  had  been  repeated.  Berenice 
was  amused  by  a  dinner  en  ville  and  a  theatre 
party,  and  then  Hubert  Falcroft  became  a  friend 
of  the  household.  When  Mineur  was  away 
painting,  the  visits  were  not  interrupted. 

"Listen,"  said  Madame  Mineur;  "I  wish  to 
speak  with  you  seriously,  my  dear  friend."  She 
made  a  movement  as  if  to  place  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  but  his  expression  —  his  face  was  in 
the  light  —  caused  her  to  transfer  her  plump 
fingers  to  her  coiffure,  which  she  touched  dex- 
terously. Hubert  was  disappointed. 

"  I  am  listening,"  he  answered ;  "  is  it  a  ser- 
mon, or  consent  —  to  that  portrait  ?  Come,  give 
in  —  Elaine."  He  had  never  called  her  by  this 
name  before,  and  he  anxiously  awaited  the  result. 
But  she  did  not  relax  her  grave  attitude. 

"  You  must  know,  Monsieur  Falcroft,  what 
anxieties  we  undergo  about  Berenice.  She  is 
too  wild  for  a  French  girl,  too  wild  for  her 
age-" 

"  Oh,  let  her  enjoy  her  youth,"  he  interrupted. 

"  Alas  !  that  youth  will  be  soon  a  thing  of  the 
past,"  she  sighed.  "  Berenice  is  past  eighteen, 
and  her  father  and  I  must  consider  her  future. 
Figure  to  yourself  —  she  dislikes  young  men,  eli- 
gible or  not,  and  you  are  the  only  man  she 
tolerates." 

"  And  I  am  hopelessly  ineligible,"  he  laugh- 
ingly said. 

"Why?  "  asked  the  mother,  quietly. 

"  Why !     Do  you  know   that  I  am  nearing 

210 


THE  TRAGIC  WALL 

forty  ?  Do  you  see  the  pepper  and  salt  in  my 
hair?  After  one  passes  tvvoscore  it  is  time  to 
think  of  the  past,  not  of  the  future.  I  am  over 
the  brow  of  the  hill ;  I  see  the  easy  decline  of 
the  road  —  it  doesn't  seem  as  long  as  when  I 
climbed  the  other  half."  He  smiled,  threw  back 
his  strong  shoulders,  and  inhaled  a  huge  breath 
of  air. 

"  Truly  you  are  childish,"  she  said ;  "  you  are 
at  the  best  part  of  your  life,  of  your  career. 
Yes,  Th^ophile,  my  husband,  who  is  so  chary 
in  his  praise,  said  that  you  would  go  far  if  you 
cared."  Her  low,  warm  voice,  with  its  pleading 
inflections,  thrilled  him.  He  took  her  by  the 
wrist. 

"  And  would  it  please  you,  if  I  went  far  ?  " 
She  trembled. 

"  Not  too  far,  dear  friend  —  remember  Bere- 
nice." 

"  I  remember  no  one  but  you,"  he  impatiently 
answered;  and  relaxing  his  hold,  he  moved  so 
that  the  moonlight  shone  on  her  face.  She  was 
pale.  In  her  eyes  there  were  fright  and  hope, 
decision  and  delight.  He  admired  her  more 
than  ever. 

"  Let  me  paint  you,  Elaine,  these  next  few 
weeks.  It  will  be  a  surprise  for  Mineur.  And 
I  shall  have  something  to  cherish.  Never  mind 
about  Berenice.  She  is  a  child.  I  am  a  middle- 
aged  man.  Between  us  is  the  wall  —  of  the 
years.  Never  should  it  be  climbed.  While 
you  —  " 

211 


VISIONARIES 

"  Be  careful  —  Hubert.  Thdophile  is  your 
friend." 

"  He  is  not.  I  never  cared  for  him.  He 
dragged  me  out  here  after  he  had  been  drinking 
too  much,  and  when  I  saw  you  I  could  not  stay 
away.  Hear  me  —  I  insist!  Berenice  is  nice, 
but  the  wall  is  too  high  for  her  to  climb;  it 
might  prove  a  —  " 

"  How  do  you  know  the  wall  is  too  steep  for 
Berenice  ? "  the  girl  cried  as  she  scaled  the  top 
with  apish  agility,  where,  after  a  few  mocking 
steps  in  the  moonlight,  she  sank  down  breathless 
beside  Hubert,  and  laughed  so  loudly  that  her 
mother  was  fearful  of  hysteria. 

"  Berenice !     Berenice !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Oh,  Berenice  is  all  right,  mamma.  Master 
Hubert,  I  want  you  to  paint  my  portrait  before 
papa  returns  —  that's  to  be  in  four  weeks,  isn't 
it  ? "  The  elder  pair  regarded  her  discon- 
certedly. 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  look  so  dismal.  I'll  not  tell 
tales  out  of  school.  Hubert  and  mamma  flirt- 
ing !  What  a  glorious  jest !  Isn't  life  a  jest, 
Hubert  ?  Let's  make  a  bargain  !  If  you  paint 
mamma,  you  paint  me,  also.  Then  —  you  see 
—  papa  will  not  be  jealous,  and  —  and  —  "  She 
was  near  tears  her  mother  felt,  and  she  leaned 
over  Hubert  and  took  the  girl's  hand.  She 
grazed  the  long  fingers  of  the  painter,  who  at 
once  caught  both  feminine  hands  in  his. 

"  Now  I  have  you  both,"  he  boasted,  and  was 
shocked  by  a  vicious  tap  on  the  cheek  —  Bere- 
212 


THE  TRAGIC  WALL 

nice  in  rage  pulled  her  left  hand  free.  Silence 
ensued.  Hubert  prudently  began  to  roll  another 
cigarette,  and  Madame  M incur  retreated  out  of 
the  moonlight,  while  Berenice  turned  her  back 
and  soon  began  to  hum.  The  artist  spoke  first : 

"  See  here,  you  silly  Berenice,  turn  around ! 
I  want  to  talk  to  you  like  a  Dutch  uncle  —  as 
we  say  in  the  United  States.  Of  course  I'll 
paint  you.  But  I  begin  with  your  mother.  And 
if  you  wish  me  to  like  you  better  than  ever,  don't 
say  such  things  as  you  did.  It  hurts  your  — 
mother."  His  voice  dropped  into  its  deepest 
bass.  She  faced  him,  and  he  saw  the  glitter  of 
wet  eyelashes.  She  was  charming,  with  her 
hair  in  disorder,  her  eyes  two  burning  points  of 
fire. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  mamma ;  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Hubert.  I'll  be  good  the  rest  of  this 
evening.  Isn't  it  lovely  ?  "  She  sniffed  in  the 
breeze  with  dilating  nostrils,  and  the  wild  look  of 
her  set  him  to  wondering  how  such  a  gentle 
mother  could  have  such  a  gypsy  daughter.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  father  —  yes,  the  old  man  had 
been  an  Apache  in  his  youth  according  to  the 
slang  of  the  studios. 

"But  you  must  paint  me  as  I  wish,  not  as 
you  will,"  resumed  Berenice.  "  I  hate  conven- 
tional portraits.  Papa  Mineur  chills  me  with 
his  cabinet  pictures  of  haughty  society  ladies, 
their  faces  as  stiff  as  their  starched  gowns." 

"Oh,   Berenice,   will    you    never   say   polite 
things  of  your  father  ?  " 
213 


VISIONARIES 

"  Never,"  she  defiantly  replied.  "  He  wouldn't 
believe  me  if  I  did.  No,  Hubert,  I  want  to  pose 
as  Ophelia.  Oh,  don't  laugh,  please!  "  They 
could  not  help  it,  and  she  leaped  to  the  grass 
and  called  out :  — 

"  I  don't  mean  a  theatrical  Ophelia,  singing 
songs  and  spilling  flowers;  I  mean  Ophelia 
drowned  — "  she  threw  herself  on  the  sward, 
her  arms  crossed  on  her  bosom,  and  in  the 
moonlight  they  could  see  her  eyes  closed  as  if 
by  death. 

"  Help  me  down,  Hubert.  That  girl  will  go 
mad  some  day."  He  reached  the  earth  and  he 
gave  her  a  hand.  Berenice  had  arisen.  Sulkily 
she  said :  — 

"  Shall  I  step  into  the  Dark  Tarn  of  Auber 
and  float  for  you  ?  I'll  make  a  realistic  picture, 
my  Master  Painter  — •  who  paints  without  imag- 
ination." And  then  she  darted  into  the  shrub- 
bery and  was  lost  to  view.  Without  further 
speech  the  two  regained  the  path  and  returned 
to  the  house. 

II 
THE  CRIMSON  SPLASH 

When  Eloise  was  asked  by  Berenice  how  long 
Monsieur  Mineur  would  remain  away  on  his  tour, 
she  did  not  reply.  Rather,  she  put  a  question  her- 
self :  why  this  sudden  solicitude  about  the  little- 
loved  stepfather.  Berenice  jokingly  answered 
214 


THE  TRAGIC  WALL 

that  she  thought  of  slipping  away  to  Switzer- 
land for  a  vacance  on  her  own  account.  Eloise, 
who  was  not  agreeable  looking,  viewed  her 
charge  suspiciously. 

"  Young  lady,  you  are  too  deep  for  me.  But 
you'll  bear  watching,"  she  grimly  confessed. 
Berenice  skipped  about  her  teasingly. 

"  I  know  something,  but  I  won't  tell,  unless 
you  tell." 

"What  is  it?" 

-Will  you  tell?" 

"  Yes." 

"  When  is  he  coming  back,  and  where  is  he 
now  ? "  she  insisted. 

"  Your  father,  you  half-crazy  child,  expects  to 
return  in  a  month  —  by  the  first  of  June.  And  if 
you  wish  to  wire  or  write  him,  let  me  know." 

"  Now  I  won't  tell  you  my  secret,"  and  she 
was  off  like  a  gale  of  wind.  Eloise  shook  her 
head  and  wondered. 

In  the  atelier  Hubert  painted.  Elaine  sat  on  a 
dais,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap  ;  about  her  head 
twisted  nun's-veiling  gave  her  the  old-fashioned 
quality  of  a  Cosway  miniature  —  the  very  effect 
he  had  sought.  It  was  to  be  a  "  pretty  "  affair, 
this  picture,  with  its  subdued  lighting,  the  face 
being  the  only  target  he  aimed  at ;  all  the  rest, 
the  suave  background,  the  gauzy  draperies,  he 
would  brush  in  —  suggest  rather  than  state. 

"  I'll  paint  her  soul,  that  sensitive  soul  of 
hers  which  tremulously  peeps  out  of  her  eyes," 
he  thought.  Elaine  was  a  patient  subject.  She 

215 


VISIONARIES 

took  the  pose  naturally  and  scarcely  breathed 
during  the  weary  sittings.  He  recalled  the 
early  gossip  and  sought  to  evoke  her  as  a  pro- 
fessional model.  But  he  gave  up  in  despair. 
She  was  hopelessly  "  ladylike,"  and  to  inter- 
pret her  adequately,  only  the  decorative  pat- 
terns of  earlier  men  —  Mignard,  Van  Loo, 
Nattier,  Largilliere  —  would  translate  her  native 
delicacy. 

For  nearly  four  weeks  he  had  laboured  on  the 
face,  painting  it  in  with  meticulous  touches  only 
to  rub  it  out  with  savage  disgust.  To  transcribe 
those  tranquil,  liquid  eyes,  their  expression  more 
natve  than  her  daughter's  —  this  had  proved  too 
difficult  a  problem  for  the  usually  facile  tech- 
nique of  Falcrof  t.  Give  him  a  brilliant  virtuoso 
theme  and  he  could  handle  it  with  some  of  the 
sweep  and  splendour  of  the  early  Carolus  Duran 
or  the  brutal  elegance  of  the  later  Boldini.  But 
Madame  Mineur  was  a  pastoral.  She  did  not 
express  nervous  gesture.  She  was  seldom 
dynamic.  To  "  do  "  her  in  dots  like  the  point il- 
listes  or  in  touches  after  the  manner  of  the 
earlier  impressionists  would  be  ridiculous.  Her 
abiding  charm  was  her  repose.  She  brought  to 
him  the  quiet  values  of  an  eighteenth-century 
eclogue  —  he  saw  her  as  a  divinely  artificial 
shepherdess  watching  an  unreal  flock,  while 
the  haze  of  decorative  atmosphere  would  en- 
velop her,  with  not  a  vestige  of  real  life  on  the 
canvas.  Yet  he  knew  her  as  a  natural,  lovable 
woman,  a  mother  who  had  suffered  and  would 
216 


THE  TRAGIC  WALL 

suffer  because  of  her  love  for  her  only  child. 
It  was  a  paradox,  like  many  other  paradoxes  of 
art. 

The  daughter  —  ah  !  perhaps  she  might  bet- 
ter suit  his  style.  She  was  admirable  in  her 
madcap  carelessness  and  exotic  colouring.  De- 
cidedly he  would  paint  her  when  this  picture 
was  finished  —  if  it  ever  would  be. 

Berenice  avoided  entering  the  studio  during 
these  sittings.  She  no  longer  jested  with  her 
mother  about  the  picture,  and  with  Hubert  she 
preserved  such  an  air  of  dignity  that  he  fancied 
he  had  offended  her.  He  usually  came  to  Vil- 
liers-le-Bel  on  an  early  train  three  or  four  times 
a  week  and  remained  at  Chalfontaine  until  ten 
o'clock.  Never  but  once  had  a  severe  storm 
forced  him  to  stay  overnight.  Since  the  episode 
onjthe  wall  he  had  not  attempted  any  further 
advances.  He  felt  happy  in  the  company  of 
Elaine,  and  gazing  into  her  large  eyes  rested  his 
spirit.  It  was  true  —  he  no  longer  played  with 
ease  the  r61e  of  a  soul-hunter.  His  youth  had 
been  troubled  by  many  adventures,  many  foolish 
ones,  and  now  he  felt  a  calm  in  the  midway  of 
his  life  and  that  desire  for  domestic  ease  which 
sooner  or  later  overtakes  all  men.  He  fancied 
himself  painting  Llaine  on  just  such  tranquil 
summer  afternoons  under  a  soft  light.  And  oh  ! 
the  joys  of  long  walks,  discreet  gossip,  and  din- 
ners at  a  well-served  table  with  a  few  chosen 
friends.  Was  he,  after  all,  longing  for  the  flesh- 
pots  of  the  philistine  —  he,  Hubert  Falcroft,  who 
217 


VISIONARIES 

had  patrolled  the  boulevards  like  other  sportsmen 
of  midnight ! 

At  last  the  picture  began  to  glow  with  that 
inner  light  he  had  so  patiently  pursued.  Elaine 
M incur  looked  at  him  from  the  canvas  with 
veiled  sweetness,  a  smile  almost  enigmatic  lurk- 
ing about  her  lips.  Deepen  a  few  lines  and  her 
expression  would  be  one  of  contented  sleekness. 
That  Hubert  had  missed  by  a  stroke.  It  was 
in  her  eyes  that  her  chief  glory  abided.  They 
were  pathetic  without  resignation,  liquid  without 
humidity,  indescribable  in  colouring  and  form. 
Their  full  cup  and  the  accents  which  experience 
had  graven  under  them  were  something  he  had 
never  dreamed  of  realizing.  It  was  a  Cosway  ; 
but  a  Cosway  broadened  and  without  a  hint  of 
genteel  namby-pamby  or  overelaborate  finesse. 
Hubert  was  fairly  satisfied.  Madame  Mineur 
had  little  to  say.  During  the  sittings  she  sel- 
dom spoke,  and  if  their  eyes  met,  the  richness 
of  her  glance  was  a  compensation  for  her  lack 
of  loquacity.  Hubert  did  not  complain.  He 
was  in  no  hurry.  To  be  under  the  same  roof 
with  this  adorable  woman  was  all  that  he  asked. 

The  day  after  he  had  finished  his  picture,  he 
returned  to  Chalfontaine  for  the  midday  break- 
fast. Berenice  was  absent  —  in  her  room  with 
a  headache,  her  mother  explained.  The  weather 
was  sultry.  He  questioned  Elaine  during 
the  meal.  Had  Berenice's  temper  improved  ? 
They  passed  out  to  the  balcony  where  their 
coffee  was  served,  and  when  he  lighted  his  cig- 
218 


THE  TRAGIC  WALL 

arette,  Madame  Mineur  begged  to  be  excused. 
She  had  promised  Cousin  Eloise  to  pay  some 
calls.  He  strolled  over  the  lawn,  watching  the 
hummocks  of  white  clouds  which  piled  up  in 
architectural  masses  across  the  southern  sky. 
Then  he  remembered  the  portrait  and  mounted 
to  the  atelier.  As  he  put  his  hand  on  the  knob 
of  the  door  he  thought  he  heard  some  one  weep- 
ing. Suddenly  the  door  was  pulled  from  his 
grasp  and  Berenice  appeared.  Her  hair  hung 
on  her  shoulders.  She  was  in  a  white  dressing- 
gown.  Her  face  was  red  and  her  eyes  swollen. 
She  did  not  attempt  to  move.  Affectionately 
Hubert  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  asked  about 
her  headache. 

"  It  is  better,"  she  answered  in  scarcely  audible 
accents. 

"  Why,  you  poor  child  !  I  hope  you  are  not 
going  to  be  ill !  Have  you  been  racing  in  the 
sun  without  your  hat  ?  " 

"  No.  I  haven't  been  out  of  doors  since  yes- 
terday." 

"What's  the  matter,  little  Berenice?  Has 
some  one  been  cross  with  her  ?  "  She  pushed 
him  from  her  violently. 

"  Hubert  Falcroft,  when  you  treat  me  as  a 
woman  and  not  as  a  child  —  " 

"  But  I  am  treating  you  as  a  woman,"  he  said. 
Her  dark  face  became  tragic.  She  had  emerged 
from  girlhood  in  a  few  hours.  And  as  he  held 
her  closer  some  perverse  spirit  entered  into  his 
soul.  Her  vibrating  youth  and  beauty  forced 
219 


VISIONARIES 

him  to  gaze  into  her  blazing  eyes  until  he  saw 
the  pupils  contract. 

"  Let  me  go !  "  she  panted.  "  Let  me  free !  I 
am  not  a  doll.  Go  to  your  portrait  and  worship 
it.  Let  me  free !  " 

"  And  what  if  I  do  not  ? "  Something  of  her 
rebellious  feeling  filled  his  veins.  He  felt 
younger,  stronger,  fiercer.  He  put  his  arms 
about  her  neck  and,  after  a  silent  battle,  kissed 
her.  Then  she  pushed  by  him  and  disappeared. 
He  could  see  nothing,  after  the  shock  of  the 
adventure,  for  some  moments,  and  the  semi-ob- 
scurity of  the  atelier  was  grateful  to  his  eyes. 
A  picture  stood  on  the  easel,  but  it  was  not,  he 
fancied,  the  portrait.  He  went  to  the  centre  of 
the  room  where  hung  the  cords  that  controlled 
the  curtains  covering  the  glass  roof.  Then  in 
the  flood  of  light  he  barely  recognized  the  head 
of  Elaine.  It  was  on  the  easel,  and  with  a 
sharp  pain  at  his  heart  he  saw  across  the  face 
a  big  crimson  splash. 


Ill 
MOON-RAYS 

The  dewy  brightness  of  tangled  blush  roses 
had  faded  in  the  vague  twilight;  through  the 
aisles  of  the  little  wood  leading  to  the  pool  the 
light  timidly  flickered  as  Hubert  and  Elaine 
walked  with  the  hesitating  steps  of  perplexed 
220 


THE  TRAGIC  WALL 

persons.  They  had  not  spoken  since  they  left 
the  house  —  there  in  a  few  hurried  words  he 
told  her  of  the  accident  and  noted  with  sorrow 
the  look  of  anguish  in  her  eyes.  Without 
knowing  why,  they  went  in  the  direction  of  the 
wall. 

There  was  no  moon  when  they  reached  the 
highroad.  It  would  rise  later,  Elaine  said  in 
her  low,  slightly  monotonous  voice.  Hubert 
was  so  stunned  by  the  memory  of  his  ruined 
picture  that  he  forgot  his  earlier  encounter  with 
Berenice  —  that  is,  in  describing  it  he  had  failed 
to  minutely  record  his  behaviour.  But  in  the 
cool  evening  air  his  conscience  became  alive  and 
he  guiltily  wondered  whether  he  dare  tell  his 
misconduct  —  no,  imprudence  ?  Why  not  ?  She 
regarded  him  as  a  possible  husband  for  Berenice 
— but  how  embarrassing!  He  made  up  his  mind 
to  say  nothing ;  when  the  morrow  came  he  would 
write  Elaine  the  truth  and  bid  her  good-by. 
He  could  not  in  honour  continue  to  visit  this 
home  where  resided  the  woman  he  loved  —  with 
a  jealous  daughter.  Why  jealous  ?  What  a 
puzzle,  and  what  an  absurd  one !  He  helped 
Elaine  to  a  seat  on  the  wall  and  sat  near  her. 
For  several  minutes  neither  spoke.  They  were 
again  facing  the  pool,  which  looked  in  the  dusk 
like  a  cracked  mirror. 

"  It  is  not  clear  yet  to  me,"  murmured  Elaine. 

"That  the   unfortunate  child  has  always  been 

more   or  less  morbid  and  sick-brained,  I  have 

been  aware.     The  world,  marriage,  and  active 

221 


VISIONARIES 

existence  will  mend  all  that,  I  hope.  I  fear  she 
is  a  little  spoilt  and  selfish.  And  she  doesn't 
love  me  very  much.  She  has  inherited  all  her 
father's  passion  for  Poe's  tales.  My  dear 
friend,  she  is  jealous  —  that's  the  only  solution 
of  this  shocking  act.  She  disliked  the  idea  of 
my  portrait  from  the  start.  You  remember 
on  this  spot  hardly  a  month  ago  she  challenged 
you  to  paint  her  as  the  drowned  Ophelia !  —  and 
all  her  teasing  about  Monsieur  Mineur  and  his 
jealousy,  and  —  " 

"Our  flirtation,"  added  Hubert,  sadly. 

"  Oh,  pray  do  not  say  such  a  thing !  She  is 
so  hot-headed,  so  fond  of  you.  Yes,  I  saw  it 
from  the  beginning,  and  your  talk  about  the  in- 
surmountable wall  of  middle-age  did  not  deceive 
me.  I  only  hope  that  will  not  be  a  tragic  wall  for 
her,  for  you  —  or  for  me.  .  .  ." 

Her  words  trailed  into  a  mere  whisper.  He 
put  his  hand  over  hers  and  again  they  were 
silent.  About  them  the  green  of  the  forest  had 
been  transformed  by  the  growing  night  into 
great  clumps  of  velvety  darkness  and  the  vault 
overhead  was  empty  of  stars.  June  airs  fanned 
their  discontent  into  mild  despair,  and  simulta- 
neously they  dreamed  of  another  life,  of  a  har- 
monious existence  far  from  Paris,  into  which  the 
phantom  of  Theophile  Mineur  would  never 
intrude.  Yet  they  made  no  demonstration  of 
their  affection  —  they  would  have  been  happy 
to  sit  and  dream  on  this  moon-haunted  wall,  near 
this  nocturnal  pool,  forever.  Hubert  pictured 
222 


THE  TRAGIC  WALL 

Berenice  in  her  room,  behind  bolted  doors,  lying 
across  the  bed  weeping,  or  else  staring  in  sullen 
repentance  at  the  white  ceiling.  Why  had  she 
indulged  in  such  vandalism  ?  The  portrait  was 
utterly  destroyed  by  the  flaring  smear  laid  on 
with  a  brush  in  the  hand  of  an  enraged  young 
animal.  What  sort  of  a  woman  might  not  de- 
velop from  this  tempestuous  girl !  He  knew  that 
he  had  mortally  offended  her  by  his  rudeness. 
But  it  was  after,  not  before,  the  cruel  treatment 
of  his  beloved  work.  Yet,  how  like  a  man  had 
been  his  rapid  succumbing  to  transitory  tempta- 
tion !  For  it  was  transitory  —  of  that  he  was 
sure.  The  woman  he  loved,  with  a  reverent  love, 
was  next  to  him,  and  if  his  pulse  did  not  beat  as 
furiously  at  this  moment  as  earlier  in  the  day, 
why  —  all  the  better.  He  was  through  forever 
with  his  boyish  recklessness. 

"Another  peculiar  thing,"  broke  in  Elaine,  as 
if  she  had  been  thinking  aloud,  "  is  that  Berenice 
has  been  pestering  Eloise  for  her  father's 
address." 

"Her  father's  address?"  echoed  her  com- 
panion. 

"Yes;  but  whether  she  wrote  to  him  Eloise 
could  not  say." 

"  Why  should  she  write  to  him  ?  She  dislikes 
him — dislikes  him  almost  as  much  —  "  he  was 
about  to  pronounce  his  own  name.  She  caught 
him  up. 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  singular  part  of  this  singular 
affair.  She  felt  slighted  because  you  painted 
223 


VISIONARIES 

my  portrait  before  hers.  I  confess  I  have  had 
my  misgivings.  You  should  have  been  more 
considerate  of  her  feelings,  Hubert,  my  friend." 
She  paused  and  sighed.  For  him  the  sigh  was 
a  spark  that  blew  up  the  magazine  of  his  firmest 
resolves.  He  had  been  touching  her  hands 
fraternally.  His  arm  embraced  her  so  that  she 
could  not  escape,  as  this  middle-aged  man  told  his 
passion  with  the  ardour  of  an  enamoured  youth. 
"You  dare  not  tell  me  you  do  not  care  for 
me !  Elaine  —  let  us  reason.  I  loved  you 
since  the  first  moment  I  met  you.  It  is  folly  to 
talk  of  Mineur  and  my  friendship  for  him.  I 
dislike,  I  despise  him.  It  is  folly  to  talk  of 
Berenice  and  her  childish  pranks.  What  if  she 
did  cruelly  spoil  my  work,  oitr  work !  She  will 
get  over  it.  Girls  always  do  get  over  these 
things.  Let  us  accept  conditions  as  they  are. 
Say  you  love  me  —  a  little  bit  —  and  I'll  be  con- 
tent to  remain  at  your  side,  a  friend,  always  that. 
I'll  paint  you  again  —  much  more  beautifully 
than  before."  He  was  hoarse  from  the  intensity 
of  his  feelings.  The  moon  had  risen  and  tipped 
with  its  silver  brush  the  tops  of  the  trees. 
"  And  —  my  husband  ?  And  Berenice  ?  " 
"  Let  things  remain  as  they  are."  He  pressed 
her  to  him.  A  crackling  in  the  underbrush  and 
a  faint  plash  in  the  lake  startled  them  asunder. 
They  listened  with  ears  that  seemed  like  beating 
hearts.  There  was  no  movement ;  only  a  night 
bird  plaintively  piped  in  the  distance  and  a  clock 
struck  the  quarter. 

224 


THE  TRAGIC  WALL 

Elaine,  now  thoroughly  frightened,  tried  to 
get  down  from  the  wall.  Hubert  restrained 
her,  and  as  they  stood  thus,  a  moaning  like  the 
wind  in  autumnal  leaves  reached  them.  The 
moon-rays  began  to  touch  the  water,  and  sud- 
denly a  nimbus  of  light  formed  about  a  floating 
face  in  the  pool.  The  luminous  path  broadened, 
and  to  their  horror  they  saw  Berenice,  her  hair 
outspread,  her  arms  crossed  on  her  young  bosom, 
lying  in  the  little  lake.  Elaine  screamed  :  — 

"  My  God  !  My  God !  It  is  Berenice !  — 
Berenice,  I  am  punished  for  my  wickedness  to 
you !  "  Hubert,  stunned  by  the  vision,  did  not 
stir,  as  the  almost  fainting  mother  gripped  his 
neck. 

And  then  the  eyes  of  the  whimsical  girl 
opened.  A  malicious  smile  distorted  her  pretty 
face.  Slowly  she  arose,  a  dripping  ghost  in 
white,  and  pointing  her  long,  thin  ringers  in  the 
direction  of  the  Ecouen  road  she  mockingly 
cried :  — 

"There  is  some  one  to  see  your  portrait  at 
last,  dear  Master  Painter."  And  saying  this 
she  vanished  in  the  gloom,  instantly  followed  by 
her  agitated  mother. 

Hubert  turned  toward  the  wall,  and  upon 
it  he  recognized  the  stepfather  of  Berenice. 
After  staring  at  each  other  like  two  moon- 
struck wights,  the  American  spoke  :  — 

"  I   swear  that   I,   alone,   am  to  blame  for 
this  —  "     The  other  wore  the  grin  of  a  malevo- 
lent satyr.     His  voice  was  thick. 
225 


VISIONARIES 

"Why  apologize,  Hubert?  You  know  that 
it  has  been  my  devoted  wish  that  you  marry 
Berenice."  He  swayed  on  his  perch.  Hubert's 
brain  was  in  a  fog. 

"  Berenice !  "  said  he. 

"  Yes  —  Berenice.  Why  not?  She  loves 
you." 

"  Then  —  you  —  Madame  Mineur  —  "  stam- 
mered Hubert.  The  Frenchman  placed  his 
finger  on  his  nose  and  slyly  whispered  :  — 

"  Don't  be  afraid  !  I'll  not  tell  my  wife  that 
I  caught  Berenice  with  you  alone  in  the  park  — 
you  Don  Juan !  Now  to  the  portrait  —  I  must 
see  that  masterpiece  of  yours.  Berenice  wrote 
me  about  it."  He  nodded  his  head  sleepily. 

"  Berenice  wrote  you  about  it ! "  was  the 
mechanical  reply. 

"  I'll  join  you  and  we'll  go  to  the  house." 
He  tried  to  step  down,  but  rolled  over  at 
Hubert's  feet. 

"  What  a  joke  is  this  champagne,"  he  growled 
as  he  was  lifted  to  his  tottering  legs.  "  We  had 
a  glorious  time  this  afternoon  before  I  left 
Paris.  Hurrah  !  You're  to  be  my  son-in-law. 
And,  my  boy,  I  don't  envy  you  —  that's  the 
truth.  With  such  a  little  demon  for  a  wife  — 
I  pity  you,  pity  you  —  hurrah  !  " 

"  I  am  more  to  be  despised,"  muttered  Hubert 
Falcroft,  as  they  moved  away  from  the  peaceful 
moonlit  wall. 


226 


XIII 
A   SENTIMENTAL    REBELLION 

I  came  not  to  send  peace,  but  a  sWord.  ...    I  am  come 
to  send  fire  on  the  earth. 

I 

HER  living  room  was  a  material  projection  of 
Yetta  Silverman's  soul.  The  apartment,  on  the 
north  side  of  Tompkins  Square,  was  small, 
sunny,  and  comfortable.  From  its  windows  in 
spring  and  summer  she  could  see  the  boys  and 
girls  playing  around  the  big,  bare  park,  and 
when  her  eyes  grew  tired  of  the  street  she  rested 
them  on  her  beloved  books  and  pictures.  On 
one  wall  hung  the  portraits  of  Herzen,  Bakou- 
nine  and  Kropotkin  —  the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy 
Ghost  of  the  anarchistic  movement,  as  she 
piously  called  them.  Other  images  of  the  propa- 
ganda were  scattered  over  the  walls :  Netscha- 
jew  — the  St.  Paul  of  the  Nihilists  —  Ravachol, 
Octave  Mirbeau,  Jean  Grave,  Reclus,  Spies, 
Parsons,  Engels,  and  Lingg  —  the  last  four  vic- 
tims of  the  Haymarket  affair,  and  the  Fenians, 
Allen,  Larkin,  and  O'Brien,  the  Manchester 
martyrs.  Among  the  philosophers,  poets,  and 
artists  were  Schopenhauer,  Tolstoy,  Max  Stirner 
227 


VISIONARIES 

—  a  rare  drawing  —  Ibsen,  Thoreau,  Emerson  — 
the  great  American  individualists  —  Beethoven, 
Zola,  Richard  Strauss,  Carlyle,  Nietzsche,  Gorky, 
Walt  Whitman,  Dostoiewsky,  Mazzini,  Rodin, 
Constantin  Meunier,  Shelley,  Turge*nieff,  Ber- 
nard Shaw,  and  finally  the  kindly  face  and  in- 
tellectual head  of  the  lawyer  who  so  zealously 
defended  the  Chicago  anarchists.  This  diversi- 
fied group,  together  with  much  revolutionary 
literature,  poems,  pamphlets,  the  works  of 
Proudhon,  Songs  Before  Sunrise,  by  Swinburne, 
and  a  beautiful  etching  of  Makart's  proletarian 
Christ,  completed,  with  an  old  square  pianoforte, 
the  ensemble  of  an  individual  room,  a  room 
that  expressed,  as  her  admirers  said,  the  strong, 
suffering  soul  of  Yetta  Silverman,  Russian 
anarchist,  agitator,  and  exile. 

"  Come  in,"  she  cried  out  in  her  sharp,  though 
not  unpleasant,  voice.  A  thin  young  man  entered. 
She  clapped  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  so  you  changed  your  mind  !  "  He  looked 
at  her  over  his  glasses  with  his  weak,  blue  eyes, 
the  white  of  which  predominated.  Simply 
dressed,  he  nevertheless  gave  the  impression  of 
superior  social  station.  He  was  of  the  New 
England  theological-seminary  type  —  narrow- 
chested,  gaunt  as  to  visage,  by  temperament 
drawn  to  theology,  or,  in  default  of  religious 
belief,  an  ardent  enthusiast  in  sociology.  The 
contracted  temples,  uncertain  gaze,  and  absence 
of  fulness  beneath  the  eyes  betrayed  the  un- 
imaginative man.  Art  was  a  sealed  book  to 
228 


A  SENTIMENTAL  REBELLION 

him,  though  taxation  fairly  fired  his  suspicious 
soul.  He  was  nervous  because  he  was  dyspep- 
tic, and  at  one  time  of  his  career  he  mistook 
stomach  trouble  for  a  call  to  the  pulpit.  And 
he  was  a  millionnaire  more  times  than  he  took 
the  trouble  to  count. 

"  Yes,"  he  timidly  replied,  "  I  did  change  my 
wavering  mind  —  as  you  call  that  deficient  organ 
of  mine  —  and  so  I  returned.  I  hope  I  don't 
disturb  you !  " 

"  No,  not  yet.  I  am  sitting  with  my  hands 
folded  in  my  lap,  like  the  women  of  your  class 
—  ladies,  you  call  them."  She  accented  the 
title,  without  bitterness.  A  cursory  estimate  of 
her  appearance  would  have  placed  her  in  the 
profession  of  a  trained  nurse,  or  perhaps  in  the 
remotest  analysis,  a  sewing  woman  of  superior 
tastes.  She  was  small,  wiry,  her  head  too  large 
for  her  body ;  but  the  abounding  nervous  vital- 
ity, the  harsh  fire  that  burned  in  her  large  brown 
eyes,  and  the  firm  mouth  would  have  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  most  careless.  Her  mask, 
with  its  high  Slavic  cheek-bones  and  sharp 
Jewish  nose,  proclaimed  her  a  magnetic  woman. 
In  her  quarter  on  the  far  East  Side  the  children 
called  her  "Aunt  Yetta."  She  was  a  sister  of 
charity  in  the  guise  of  a  revolutionist. 

"You  sit  but  you  think,  and  my  ladies  never 
think,"  he  answered,  in  his  boyish  voice.  He 
seemed  proud  to  be  so  near  this  distinguished 
creature.  Had  she  not  been  sent  to  Siberia, 
driven  out  of  France  and  Germany,  and  arrested 
229 


VISIONARIES 

in  New  York  for  her  incendiary  speeches  ?  She 
possessed  the  most  extraordinary  power  over  an 
audience.  Once,  at  Cooper  Union,  Arthur  had 
seen  her  control  a  crazy  mob  bent  on  destroying 
the  building  because  a  few  stupid  police  had  in- 
terfered with  the  meeting.  Among  her  brethren 
Yetta  Silverman  was  classed  with  Louise  Michel, 
Sophia  Perowskaia,  and  Vera  Zassoulitch,  those 
valiant  women,  true  guardian  angels,  veritable 
martyrs  to  the  cause.  He  thought  of  them  as 
he  watched  the  delicate-looking  young  woman 
before  him. 

Arthur  was  too  chilly  of  blood  to  fall  in  love 
with  her;  his  admiration  was  purely  cerebral. 
He  was  unlucky  enough  to  have  had  for  a  father 
a  shrewd,  visionary  man,  that  curious  combina- 
tion of  merchant  and  dreamer  once  to  be  found 
in  New  England.  A  follower  of  Fourier,  a 
friend  of  Emerson,  the  elder  Wyartz  had  gone 
to  Brook  Farm  and  had  left  it  in  a  few  months. 
Dollars,  not  dreams,  was  his  true  ambition.  But 
he  registered  his  dissatisfaction  with  this  futile 
attempt  by  christening  his  only  son,  Arthur 
Schopenhauer ;  it  was  old  Wyartz's  way  of  get- 
ting even  with  the  ideal.  Obsessed  from  the 
age  of  spelling  by  his  pessimistic  middle  name, 
the  boy  had  grown  up  in  a  cloudy  compromise 
of  rebellion  and  the  church.  For  a  few  years 
he  vacillated ;  he  went  to  Harvard,  studied  the 
Higher  Criticism,  made  a  trip  abroad,  wrote  a 
little  book  recording  the  contending  impulses  of 
his  pale,  harassed  soul  —  Oscillations  was  the 
230 


A  SENTIMENTAL  REBELLION 

title  — 'and  returned  to  Boston  a  mild  anarch. 
Emerson  the  mystic,  transposed  to  the  key  of 
France,  sometimes  makes  bizarre  music. 

She  arose  and,  walking  over  to  him,  put  her 
hand  nonchalantly  on  his  shoulder. 

"Arthur,  comrade,  what  do  you  mean  to  do 
with  yourself  —  come,  what  will  all  this  enthu- 
siasm bring  forth  ? "  He  fumbled  his  glasses 
with  his  thumb  and  index  finger  —  a  character- 
istic gesture  —  and  nervously  regarded  her  be- 
fore answering.  Then  he  smiled  at  his  idea. 

"We  might  marry  and  fight  the  great  fight 
together  like  the  Jenkins  crowd." 

"  Marry  !  "  she  exclaimed  —  her  guttural  Rus- 
sian accent  manifested  itself  when  she  became 
excited  —  "  marry  !  You  are  only  a  baby, 
Arthur  Schopenhauer  Wyartz  —  Hcrrgott,  this 
child  bears  stick  a  name !  —  and  while  I  am  sure 
the  thin  Yankee  blood  of  the  Jenkins  family 
needed  a  Jewish  wife,  and  a  Slav,  I  am  not  that 
way  of  thinking  for  myself.  I  am  married  to  the 
revolution."  Her  eyes  dwelt  with  reverence  on 
her  new  Christian  saints,  those  Christs  of  the  gut- 
ter, who  had  sacrificed  their  lives  in  the  modern 
arena  for  the  idea  of  liberty,  who  were  thrown 
to  the  wild  beasts  and  slaughtered  by  the  latter- 
day  pagans  of  wealth,  and  barbarians  in  purple. 
He  followed  her  glance.  It  lashed  him  to 
jerky  enthusiasm. 

"  I  am  not  joking,"  he  earnestly  asserted,  "  so 
pardon  my  rashness.  Only  believe  in  my  sin- 
cerity. I  am  no  anarch  on  paper.  I  am  de- 
231 


VISIONARIES 

voted  to  your  cause  and  to  you,  Yetta,  to  my 
last  heart's  blood.  Do  you  need  my  wealth  ?  It 
is  yours.  You  can  work  miracles  with  millions 
in  America.  Take  it  all." 

"  It's  not  money  we  need,  but  men,"  she  an- 
swered darkly.  "  Your  millions,  which  came  to 
you  innocently  enough,  represent  the  misery  of 
—  how  many  ?  Let  the  multi-millionnaires  give 
away  their  money  to  found  theological  colleges 
and  libraries  —  my  party  will  have  none  of  it. 
Its  men  are  armed  by  the  ideas  that  we  prefer. 
I  don't  blame  the  rich  or  the  political  tyrants  — 
the  mob  has  to  be  educated,  the  unhappy  pro- 
letarians, who  have  so  long  submitted  to  the 
crack  of  the  whip  that  they  wouldn't  know  what 
to  do  with  their  freedom  if  they  had  it.  All 
mobs  believe  alike  in  filth  and  fire,  whether  an- 
tique slaves  free  for  their  day's  Saturnalia,  or  the 
Paris  crowds  of  '93.  Their  ideas  of  happiness 
are  pillage,  bloodshed,  drunkenness,  revenge. 
Every  popular  uprising  sinks  the  people  deeper 
in  their  misery.  Every  bomb  thrown  discredits 
the  cause  of  liberty." 

Astonished  by  this  concession,  Arthur  won- 
dered how  she  had  ever  earned  her  reputation 
as  the  Russian  "  Red  Virgin,"  as  an  unequivocal 
terrorist.  Thus  he  had  heard  her  hailed  at  all 
the  meetings  which  she  addressed.  But  she  did 
not  notice  his  perturbation,  she  was  following 
another  train. 

"  You  Americans  do  not  love  money  as  much 
as  the  Europeans  —  who  hoard  it  away,  who  wor- 
232 


A  SENTIMENTAL  REBELLION 

ship  it  on  their  naked  knees ;  but  you  do  some- 
thing worse  —  you  love  it  for  the  sake  of  the 
sport,  a  cruel  sport  for  the  poor.  You  go  into 
speculation  as  the  English  go  after  big  game. 
It  is  a  sport.  This  sport  involves  food  —  and 
you  gamble  with  wheat  and  meat  for  counters, 
while  starving  men  and  women  pay  for  the  game. 
America  is  yet  rich  enough  to  afford  this  sport, 
but  some  day  it  will  become  crowded  like  Eu- 
rope, and  then,  beware !  Wasn't  it  James  Hin- 
ton  who  said  that  '  Overthrowing  society  means 
an  inverted  pyramid  getting  straight '  ? 

"  And  America,"  she  continued,  "  bribes  us 
with  the  gilded  sentimental  phrases  of  Rousseau, 
Mirabeau,  and  Thomas  Paine  woven  into  your 
national  constitution,  with  its  presumptuous  dec- 
laration that  all  men  are  born  free  and  equal 
—  shades  of  Darwin  and  Nietzsche  !  —  and  that 
universal  suffrage  is  a  panacea  for  all  evils.  In 
no  country  boasting  itself  Christian  is  there  a 
system  so  artfully  devised  for  keeping  the  poor 
free  and  unequal,  no  country  where  so-called 
public  opinion,  as  expressed  in  the  press,  is  used 
to  club  the  majority  into  submission.  And  you 
are  all  proud  of  this  liberty  —  a  liberty  at  which 
the  despised  serf  in  Russia  or  the  man  of  the 
street  in  London  sneers  —  there  is  to-day  more 
individual  liberty  in  England  and  Germany  than 
in  the  United  States.  Don't  smile !  I  can  prove 
it.  As  for  France  or  Italy  —  they  are  a  hun- 
dred years  ahead  of  you  in  municipal  government. 
But  I  shan't  talk  blue-books  at  you,  Arthur  I  " 
233 


VISIONARIES 

"Why  not,  why  not?"  he  quickly  interposed. 
"  You  always  impress  me  by  your  easy  handling 
of  facts.  And  why  won't  my  money  be  of  use 
to  the  social  revolution  ? "  Scornfully  she  started 
up  again  and  began  walking. 

"Why  ?  Because  convictions  can't  be  bought 
with  cash !  Why  !  Because  philanthropy  is  the 
most  selfish  of  vices.  You  may  do  good  here  and 
there  —  but  you  do  more  harm.  You  create  more 
paupers,  you  fine  gentlemen,  with  your  Mission 
houses  and  your  Settlement  workers  !  You  are 
trying  to  cover  the  ugly  sores  with  a  plaster  of 
greenbacks.  It  won't  heal  the  sickness  —  it 
won't  heal  it,  I  tell  you."  Her  eyes  were  flam- 
ing and  she  stamped  the  floor  passionately. 

"  We  workers  on  the  East  Side  have  a  name  for 
you  million naires.  We  call  you  the  White  Mice. 
You  have  pretty  words  and  white  lies,  pretty  ways 
and  false  smiles.  Lies !  lies !  lies !  You  are 
only  giving  back,  with  the  aid  of  your  superficial 
fine  ladies,  the  money  stolen  from  the  true  money 
earners.  You  have  discovered  the  Ghetto  —  you 
and  the  impertinent  newspaper  men.  And  like 
the  reporters  you  come  down  to  use  us  for  '  copy.' 
You  live  here  in  comfort  among  us  and  then  go 
away,  write  a  book  about  our  wretchedness  and 
pose  as  altruistic  heroes  in  your  own  silly  set. 
How  I  loathe  that  word  —  altruism !  As  if  the 
sacrifice  of  your  personality  does  not  always  lead 
to  self-deception,  to  hypocrisy  !  It  is  an  excuse 
for  the  busybody-rich  to  advertise  their  charities. 
If  they  were  as  many  armed  as  Briareus  or  the 
234 


A   SENTIMENTAL   REBELLION 

octopus,  their  charity  would  be  known  to  each 
and  every  hand  on  their  arms.  These  senti- 
mental anarchs !  They  even  marry  our  girls 
and  carry  them  off  to  coddle  their  conscience 
with  gilded  gingerbread.  Yet  they  would  turn 
their  backs  on  Christ  if  he  came  to  Hester 
Street — Christ,  the  first  modern  anarch,  a  de- 
structionist,  a  proletarian  who  preached  fire 
and  sword  for  the  evil  rich  of  his  times.  Nowa- 
days he  would  be  sent  to  Blackwell's  Island  for 
six  months  as  a  disturber  of  the  peace  or  for 
healing  without  a  license  from  the  County  Medi- 
cal Association !  " 

"Like  Johann  Most,"  he  ventured.  She 
blazed  at  the  name. 

"  No  jokes,  please.  Most,  too,  has  suffered. 
But  I  am  no  worshipper  of  bombs  —  and  beer." 
This  made  him  laugh,  but  as  the  laugh  was  not 
echoed  he  stared  about  him. 

"  But  Yetta,  —  we  must  begin  somewhere.  I 
wish  to  become  —  to  become  —  something  like 
you.  —  " 

She  interrupted  him  roughly  : 

"  To  become  —  you  an  anarch  !  You  are  a 
sentimental  rebel  because  your  stomach  is  not 
strong  enough  for  the  gourmands  who  waste 
their  time  at  your  clubs.  If  your  nerves  were 
sound  you  might  make  a  speech.  But  the  New 
England  conscience  of  your  forefathers  —  they 
were  nearly  all  clergymen,  weren't  they  ?  —  has 
ruined  your  strength.  The  best  thing  you  can 
do,  my  boy,  is  to  enter  a  seminary  and  later  go 

235 


VISIONARIES 

to  China  as  a  missionary  ;  else  turn  literary  and 
edit  an  American  edition  of  Who's  Who  in 
Hell !  But  leave  our  East  Side  alone.  Do  you 
know  what  New  York  reminds  me  of?  Its 
centre  is  a  strip  of  green  and  gold  between 
two  smouldering  red  rivers  of  fire  —  the  East 
and  West  Sides.  If  they  ever  spill  over  the 
banks,  all  the  little  parasites  of  greater  para- 
sites, the  lawyers,  brokers,  bankers,  journalists, 
ecclesiastics,  and  middle  men,  will  be  devoured. 
Oh,  what  a  glorious  day !  And  oh,  that  ter- 
rible night  when  we  marched  behind  the  black 
flag  and  muffled  drums  down  Broadway,  that 
night  in  1887  when  the  four  martyrs  were  mur- 
dered, the  hero  Lingg  having  killed  himself. 
What  would  you  have  done  in  those  awful 
times  ? " 

"Try  me,"  he  muttered,  as  he  pulled  down 
his  cuffs,  "  try  me !  " 

"Very  well,  I'll  try  you.  Like  Carlo  Cafiero, 
the  rich  Italian  anarch,  you  must  give  your  money 
to  us  —  every  cent  of  it.  Come  with  me  to-night. 
I  address  a  meeting  of  the  brethren  at  Schwab's 
place  —  you  know,  the  saloon  across  the  street, 
off  the  square.  We  can  eat  our  supper  there, 
and  then  —  " 

"Try  me,"  he  reiterated,  and  his  voice  was 
hoarse  with  emotion,  his  pulse  painfully  irregular. 

II 

Notwithstanding  his  vows  of  heroism,  Arthur 
could  not  force  himself  to  like  the  establishment 
236 


A  SENTIMENTAL   REBELLION 

of  Schwab,  where  the  meeting  was  to  take 
place.  It  was  a  beer-saloon,  not  one  of  those 
mock-mediaeval  uptown  palaces,  but  a  long 
room  with  a  low  ceiling,  gaslit  and  shabby. 
The  tables  and  chairs  of  hard,  coarse  wood  were 
greasy  —  napkins  and  table-cloths  were  not  to 
be  mentioned,  else  would  the  brethren  suspect 
the  presence  of  -an  aristocrat.  At  the  upper  end, 
beyond  the  little  black  bar,  there  was  a  plat- 
form, upon  it  a  table,  a  pianoforte,  and  a  stool. 
Still  he  managed  to  conceal  his  repugnance  to 
all  these  uninviting  things  and  he  sipped  his 
diluted  Rhine  wine,  ate  his  sandwich  —  an 
unpalatable  one  —  under  the  watchful  eyes  of  his 
companion.  By  eight  o'clock  the  room  was 
jammed  with  working-people,  all  talking  and  in 
a  half  dozen  tongues.  Occasionally  Yetta  left 
him  to  join  a  group,  and  where  she  went  silence 
fell.  She  was  the  oracle  of  the  crowd.  At 
nine  o'clock  Arthur's  head  ached.  He  had 
smoked  all  his  Turkish  cigarettes,  the  odour  of 
which  caused  some  surprise  —  there  was  a 
capitalist  present  and  they  knew  him.  Only 
Yetta  prevented  disagreeable  comment.  The 
men,  who  belonged  to  the  proletarian  class,  were 
poorly  dressed  and  intelligent ;  the  women  wore 
shawls  on  their  heads  and  smoked  bad  cigarettes. 
The  saloon  did  not  smell  nice,  Arthur  thought. 
He  had  offered  Yetta  one  of  his  imported  cig- 
arettes, but  she  lighted  a  horrible  weed  and 
blew  the  smoke  in  his  face. 

At  ten  o'clock  he  wished  himself  away,     But 

237 


VISIONARIES 

a  short,  stout  man  with  a  lopsided  face  showing 
through  his  tangled  beard,  stood  up  and  said  in 
German  :  — 

"  All  who  are  not  our  friends,  please  leave  the 
house." 

No  one  stirred.  The  patron  went  from  group 
to  group  saluting  his  customers  and  eying 
those  who  were  not.  Whether  any  password 
or  signal  was  given  Arthur  could  not  say. 
When  the  blond,  good-natured  Schwab  reached 
him,  Yetta  whispered  in  his  ear.  The  host 
beamed  on  the  young  American  and  gave  him  a 
friendly  poke  in  the  back ;  Arthur  felt  as  if  he 
had  been  knighted.  He  said  this  to  Yetta,  but 
her  attention  was  elsewhere.  The  doors  and 
windows  were  quickly  shut  and  bolted.  She 
nudged  his  elbow  —  for  they  were  sitting  six  at 
the  table,  much  to  his  disgust;  the  other  four 
drank  noisily  —  and  he  followed  her  to  the  top 
of  the  room.  A  babble  broke  out  as  they  moved 
along. 

"It's  Yetta's  new  catch.  Yetta's  rich  fel- 
low. Wait  until  she  gets  through  with  him — 
poor  devil."  These  broken  phrases  made  him 
shiver,  especially  as  Yetta's  expression,  at  first 
enigmatic,  was  now  openly  sardonic.  What  did 
she  mean  ?  Was  she  only  tormenting  him  ? 
Was  this  to  be  his  test,  his  trial  ?  His  head  was 
almost  splitting,  for  the  heat  was  great  and  the 
air  bad.  Again  he  wished  himself  home. 

They  reached  the  platform.  "Jump  up, 
Arthur,  and  help  me,"  she  commanded.  He 

238 


A  SENTIMENTAL  REBELLION 

did  so.  But  his  discomfiture  only  grew  apace 
with  the  increased  heat  —  the  dingy  ceiling 
crushed  him  —  and  the  rows  in  front,  the  en- 
tire floor  seemed  transformed  to  eyes,  malicious 
eyes.  She  told  him  to  sit  down  at  the  piano 
and  play  the  Marseillaise.  Then  standing  be- 
fore the  table  she  drew  from  her  bosom  a 
scarlet  flag,  and  accompanied  by  the  enthusias- 
tic shoutings  she  led  the  singing.  Arthur  at 
the  keyboard  felt  exalted.  Forgotten  the  pains 
of  a  moment  before.  He  hammered  the  keys 
vigorously,  extorting  from  the  battered  instru- 
ment a  series  of  curious  croakings.  Some  of  the 
keys  did  not  "  speak,"  some  gave  forth  a  brazen 
clangour  from  the  rusty  wires.  No  one  cared. 
The  singing  stopped  with  the  last  verse. 

"  Now  La  Ravachole  for  our  French  breth- 
ren." This  combination  of  revolutionary  lyrics 
—  Ca  Ira  and  Carmagnole  —  was  chanted  fer- 
vidly. Then  came  for  the  benefit  of  the  German 
the  stirring  measures  from  the  Scotch-German 
John  Henry  Mackay's  Sturm  :  — 

Das  ist  der  Kampf,  den  allnachtlich 
Bevor  das  Dunkel  zerrinnt, 
Einsam  und  gramvoll  auskampt 
Des  Jahrhunderts  verlorenes  Kind. 

Yetta  waved  her  long  and  beautifully  shaped 
hands  —  they  were  her  solitary  vanity.  The 
audience  became  still.  She  addressed  them  at 
first  in  deliberate  tones,  and  Arthur  noted  that 
the  interest  was  genuine — he  wondered  how 

239 


VISIONARIES 

long  his  fat-witted  club  friends  could  endure  or 
appreciate  the  easy  manner  in  which  Yetta 
Silverman  quoted  from  great  thinkers,  and 
sprinkled  these  quotations  with  her  own  biting 
observations. 

"  Richard  Wagner  —  who  loved  humanity 
when  he  wrote  Siegfried  and  regretted  that 
love  in  Parsifal ! 

"  Richard  Wagner  —  who  loved  ice-cream 
more  than  Dresden's  freedom  —  Wagner:  the 
Swiss  family  bell-ringer  of  '48 ! 

"  To  Max  Stirner,  Ibsen,  and  Richard  Strauss 
belongs  the  twentieth  century  ! 

"  Nietzsche  —  the  anarch  of  aristocrats ! 

"  Karl  Marx —  or  the  selfish  Jew  socialist ! 

"  Lassalle  —  the  Jew  comedian  of  liberty ! 

"  Bernard  Shaw  —  the  clever  Celt  who  would 
sacrifice  socialism  for  an  epigram. 

"  Curse  all  socialists! "  she  suddenly  screamed. 

Arthur,  entranced  by  the  playful  manner  with 
which  she  disposed  of  friend  and  foe,  was  aghast 
at  this  outbreak.  He  saw  another  Yetta.  Her 
face  was  ugly  and  revengeful.  She  sawed  the 
air  with  her  thin  arms. 

"  Repeat  after  me,"  she  adjured  her  hearers, 
"  the  Catechism  of  Sergei  Netschajew,  but  begin 
with  Herzen's  noble  motto :  '  Long  live  chaos 
and  destruction  ! '  " 

"  Long  live  chaos  and  destruction ! "  was 
heartily  roared. 

The  terrific  catechism  of  the  apostle  Netscha- 
jew made  Arthur  shake  with  alternate  woe  and 
240 


A  SENTIMENTAL   REBELLION 

wrath.  It  was  bloody-minded  beyond  descrip- 
tion. Like  a  diabolic  litany  boomed  the  ques- 
tions and  answers :  — 

"  Day  and  night  we  must  have  but  one  thought 
—  inexorable  destruction."  And  Arthur  recalled 
how  this  pupil  of  Bakounine  had  with  the  assist- 
ance of  Pryow  and  Nicolajew  beguiled  a  certain 
suspected  friend,  Ivanow,  into  a  lonely  garden 
and  killed  him,  throwing  the  body  into  a  lake. 
After  that  Netschajew  disappeared,  though  occa- 
sionally showing  himself  in  Switzerland  and  Eng- 
land. Finally,  in  1872,  he  was  nabbed  by  the 
Russian  government,  sent  to  Siberia,  and  — ! 

Ugh  !  thought  Arthur,  what  a  people,  what  an 
ending !  And  Yetta  —  why  did  she  now  so 
openly  proclaim  destruction  as  the  only  pallia- 
tive for  social  crime  when  she  had  so  eloquently 
disclaimed  earlier  in  the  day  the  propaganda  by 
force,  by  dagger,  and  dynamite  ?  —  He  had 
hardly  asked  himself  the  question  when  there 
came  a  fierce  rapping  of  wooden  clubs  at  door 
and  window.  Instantly  a  brooding  hush  like 
that  which  precedes  a  hurricane  fell  upon  the 
gathering.  But  Yetta  did  not  long  remain 
silent. 

"  Quick,  Arthur,  play  the  Star-Spangled 
Banner!  It's  the  police.  I  want  to  save 
these  poor  souls  — "  she  added,  with  a  gulp  in 
her  throat ;  "  quick,  you  idiot,  the  Star-Spangled 
Banner."  But  Arthur  was  almost  fainting. 
His  fingers  fell  listlessly  on  the  keys,  and  they 
were  too  weak  to  make  a  sound.  The  police ! 
241 


VISIONARIES 

he  moaned,  as  the  knocking  deepened  into  bang- 
ing and  shouting.  What  a  scandal!  What  a 
disgrace !  He  could  never  face  his  own  world 
after  this !  To  be  caught  with  a  lot  of  crazy 
anarchists  in  a  den  like  this!  —  Smash,  went 
the  outside  door !  And  the  newspapers  !  They 
would  laugh  him  out  of  town.  He,  Arthur 
Schopenhauer  Wyartz,  the  Amateur  Anarch! 
He  saw  the  hideous  headlines.  Why,  the  very 
daily  in  which  some  of  his  fortune  was  invested 
would  be  the  first  to  mock  him  most ! 

The  assault  outside  increased.  He  leaped  to 
the  floor,  where  Yetta  was  surrounded  by  an  ex- 
cited crowd.  He  plucked  her  sleeve.  She  gazed 
at  him  disdainfully. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Yetta,  get  me  out  of  this  — 
this  awful  scrape.  My  mother,  my  sisters  —  the 
disgrace !  "  She  laughed  bitterly. 

"  You  poor  chicken  among  hawks !  But  I'll 
help  you  —  follow  me."  He  reached  the  cellar 
stairs,  and  she  showed  him  a  way  by  which  he 
could  walk  safely  into  the  alley,  thence  to  the 
street  back  of  their  building.  He  shook  her 
hand  with  the  intensity  of  a  man  in  the  clutches 
of  the  ague. 

"  But  you  —  why  don't  you  go  with  me  ? "  he 
asked,  his  teeth  chattering. 

The  brittle  sound  of  glass  breaking  was  heard. 
She  answered,  as  she  took  his  feverish  hand  :  — 

"  Because,  you  brave  revolutionist,  I  must  stick 
to  my  colours.  Farewell ! "  And  remounting 
the  stairs,  she  saw  the  bluecoats  awaiting  her. 
242 


A  SENTIMENTAL  REBELLION 

"  I  hope  the  police  will  catch  him  anyhow," 
she  said.  It  was  her  one  relapse  into  feminin- 
ity, and  as  she  quietly  surrendered  she  did  not 
regret  it. 

Ill 

Old  Koschinsky's  store  on  the  avenue  was 
the  joy  of  the  neighbourhood.  For  hours,  their 
smeary  faces  flattened  against  the  glass,  the 
children  watched  the  tireless  antics  of  the  re- 
volving squirrels;  the  pouter  pigeons  expand 
their  breasts  into  feathered  balloons;  the  gold- 
fish, as  they  stolidly  swam,  their  little  mouths 
open,  their  eyes  following  the  queer  human 
animals  imprisoned  on  the  other  side  of  the 
plate-glass  window.  Canary  birds  by  the  hun- 
dreds made  the  shop  a  trying  one  for  sensitive 
ears.  There  were  no  monkeys.  Koschinsky, 
whose  heart  was  as  soft  as  butter,  though  he  was 
a  formidable  revolutionist  —  so  he  swore  over  at 
Schwab's  —  declared  that  monkeys  were  made 
in  the  image  of  tyrannical  humans.  He  would 
have  none  of  them.  Parrots?  There  were 
enough  of  the  breed  around  him,  he  told  the 
gossiping  women,  who,  with  their  scheitels, 
curved  noses,  and  shining  eyes,  lent  to  the 
quarter  its  Oriental  quality. 

It  was  in  Koschinsky's  place  that  Arthur  first 

encountered  Yetta.      He  was  always  prowling 

about  the  East  Side  in  search  of   sociological 

prey,   and  the   modest  little  woman  with  her 

243 


VISIONARIES 

intelligent  and  determined  face  attracted  him 
strongly.  They  fell  into  easy  conversation  near 
a  cage  of  canaries,  and  the  acquaintance  soon 
bloomed  into  a  friendship.  A  week  after  the 
raid  on  Schwab's,  Arthur,  very  haggard  and 
nervous,  wandered  into  Koschinsky's.  The  old 
man  greeted  him  :  — 

"  Hu !  So  you've  just  come  down  from  the 
Island !  Well  —  how  did  you  like  it  up  there  ? 
Plenty  water  —  eh?"  The  sarcasm  was  too 
plain,  and  the  young  man,  mumbling  some  sort 
of  an  answer,  turned  to  go. 

"Hold  on  there!"  said  Koschinsky.  "I 
expect  a  very  fine  bird  soon.  You'd  better 
wait.  It  was  here  only  last  night;  and  the 
bird  asked  whether  you  had  been  in."  Arthur 
started. 

"  For  me  ?     Miss  Silverman  ? " 

"  I  said  a  bird,"  was  the  dogged  reply.  And 
then  Yetta  walked  up  to  Arthur  and  asked  :  — 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  Why  haven't  you 
called  ?  "  He  blushed. 

"  I  was  ashamed." 

"  Because  you  were  so,  so  —  frightened,  that 
night  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  But  nothing  came  of  the  affair.  The  police 
could  get  no  evidence.  We  had  no  flags  —  " 

"That  scarlet  one  I  saw  you  with  —  what  of 
it?"  She  smiled. 

"  Did  you  look  in  your  pockets  when  you  got 
home  ?  I  stuffed  the  flag  in  one  of  them  while 
244 


A  SENTIMENTAL  REBELLION 

we  were  downstairs."      He  burst  into  genteel 
laughter. 

"  No,  I  threw  off  my  clothes  in  such  disgust 
that  night  that  I  vowed  I  would  never  get  into 
them  again.  I  gave  the  suit  to  my  valet." 

"Your  valet,"  she  gravely  returned ;  "he  may 
become  one  of  its." 

"  Fancy,  when  I  reached  the  house  —  I  went 
up  in  a  hansom,  for  I  was  bareheaded  —  my 
mother  was  giving  the  biggest  kind  of  a  ball. 
I  had  no  end  of  trouble  trying  to  sneak  in 
unobserved." 

She  regarded  him  steadily.  "  Isn't  it  strange," 
she  went  on,  "how  the  bull-dog  police  of  this 
town  persecute  us  —  and  they  should  be  sym- 
pathetic. They  had  to  leave  their  own  island 
because  of  tyranny.  Yet  as  soon  as  they  step 
on  this  soil  they  feel  themselves  self-constituted 
tyrants.  Something  of  the  sort  happened  with 
your  own  ancestors  — "  she  looked  at  him 
archly  —  "  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  were  not  very 
tolerant  to  the  Quakers,  the  Jews,  Catholics,  or 
any  sect  not  their  own.  Now  you  do  not  seem  to 
have  inherited  that  ear-slicing  temperament  —  " 

"Oh,  stop,  Yetta!  Don't  make  any  more 
fun  of  me.  I  confess  I  am  cowardly  —  I  hate 
rows  and  scandals  —  " 

"  *  What  shall  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gains  the 
whole  world  and  loses  his  liberty  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  this  was  such  a  nasty 
little  affair.  The  newspapers  would  have  driven 
me  crazy." 

245 


VISIONARIES 

"  But  suppose,  for  the  sake  of  argument,"  she 
said,  "  that  the  row  would  not  have  appeared  in 
the  newspapers  —  what  then  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  By  Jove,  there  was 
nothing  in  the  papers,  now  that  I  come  to  think 
of  it.  I  went  the  next  morning  out  to  Tuxedo 
and  forgot  —  what  do  you  mean  by  this  mys- 
tery, Yetta  ? " 

"  I  mean  this  —  suppose,  for  the  sake  of  fur- 
ther argument,  I  should  tell  you  that  there  was 
no  row,  no  police,  no  arrests  !  "  He  gasped. 

"  O-h,  what  an  ass  I  made  of  myself.  So  that 
was  your  trial!  And  I  failed.  Oh,  Yetta, 
Yetta  —  what  shall  I  say  ? "  The  girl  softened. 
She  took  both  his  hands  in  her  shapely  ones 
and  murmured :  — 

"  Dear  little  boy,  I  treated  you  roughly.  For- 
give me  !  There  was  a  real  descent  by  the  police 
—  it  was  no  deception.  That's  why  I  asked 
you  to  play  the  Star-Spangled  Banner  — " 

"  Excuse  me,  Yetta ;  but  why  did  you  do  that  ? 
Why  didn't  you  meet  the  police  defiantly  chant- 
ing the  Marseillaise  ?  That  would  have  been 
braver  —  more  like  the  true  anarchist."  She 
held  down  her  head. 

"  Because  —  because  —  those  poor  folks  —  I 
wanted  to  spare  them  as  much  trouble  with  the 
police  as  possible,"  she  said  in  her  lowest  tones. 

"And  why,"  he  pursued  triumphantly,  "why 
did  you  preach  bombs  after  assuring  me  that 
reform  must  come  through  the  spiritual  propa- 
ganda ?  "     She  quickly  replied  :  — 
246 


A  SENTIMENTAL   REBELLION 

"  Because  our  most  dangerous  foe  was  in  the 
audience.  You  know.  The  man  with  the  beard 
who  first  spoke.  He  has  often  denounced  me  as 
lukewarm ;  and  then  you  know  words  are  not 
as  potent  as  deeds  with  the  proletarians.  One 
assassination  is  of  more  value  than  all  the  phi- 
losophy of  Tolstoy.  And  that  old  wind-bag  sat 
near  us  and  watched  us  —  watched  me.  That's 
why  I  let  myself  go  —  "  she  was  blushing  now, 
and  old  Koschinsky  nearly  dropped  a  bird-cage 
in  his  astonishment. 

"Yetta,  Yetta!"  Arthur  insisted,  "wind-bag, 
you  call  your  comrade  ?  Were  you  not,  just  for 
a  few  minutes,  in  the  same  category  ? "  Again 
she  was  silent. 

"I  feel  now,"  he  ejaculated,  as  he  came 
very  close  to  her,  "  that  we  must  get  outside 
of  these  verbal  entanglements.  I  want  you 
to  become  my  wife."  His  heart  sank  as  he 
thought  of  his  mother's  impassive,  high-bred  air 
—  with  such  a  figure  for  a  Fifth  Avenue  bride ! 
The  girl  looked  into  his  weak  blue  eyes  with 
their  area  of  saucer-like  whiteness.  She  shook 
her  stubborn  head. 

"  I  shall  never  marry.  I  do  not  believe  in 
such  an  institution.  It  degrades  women,  makes 
tyrants  of  men.  No,  Arthur  —  I  am  fond  of 
you,  perhaps  —  "  she  paused,  —  "  so  fond  that  I 
might  enter  into  any  relation  but  marriage,  — 
that  never !  " 

"  And  I  tell  you,  Yetta,  anarchy  or  no  anarchy, 
I  could  never  respect  the  woman  if  she  were 
247 


VISIONARIES 

not  mine  legally.  In  America  we  do  these 
things  differently  — "  he  was  not  allowed  to 
finish. 

She  glared  at  him,  then  she  strode  to  the 
shop  door  and  opened  it. 

"  Farewell  to  you,  Mr.  Arthur  Schopenhauer 
Wyartz,  amateur  anarchist.  Better  go  back  to 
your  mother  and  sisters  !  Mein  Gott,  Schopen- 
hauer, too  !  "  He  put  "his  Alpine  hat  on  his  be- 
wildered head  and  without  a  word  went  out. 
She  did  not  look  after  him,  but  walked  over  to 
the  old  bird-fancier  and  sat  on  his  leather-topped 
stool.  Presently  she  rested  her  elbows  on  her 
knees  and  propped  her  chin  with  her  gloveless 
hands.  Her  eyes  were  red.  Koschinsky  peeped 
at  her  and  shook  his  head. 

"Yetta  —  you  know  what  I  think  !  — Yetta, 
the  boy  was  right !  You  shouldn't  have  asked 
him  for  the  Star-Spangled  Banner  !  The  Mar- 
seillaise would  have  been  better." 

"I  don't  care,"  she  viciously  retorted. 

"  I  know,  I  know.  But  a  nice  boy  —  so  well 
fixed."  x 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  insisted.  "  I'm  married 
to  the  revolution." 

"Yah,  yah!  the  revolution,  Yetta  —  "  he 
pushed  his  lean,  brown  forefinger  into  the  cage 
of  an  enraged  canary —  "  the  revolution !  Yes, 
Yetta  Silverman,  the  revolution  !  "  She  sighed. 


248 


XIV 

HALL   OF  THE   MISSING   FOOT- 
STEPS 

So  I  saw  in  my  dream  that  the  man  began  to  run. 

—  Pilgrim's  Progress. 


As  the  first-class  carriage  rolled  languidly 
out  of  Balak's  only  railway  station  on  a  sultry 
February  evening,  Pobloff,  the  composer,  was 
not  sorry. 

"  I  wish  it  were  Persia  instead  of  Ramboul," 
he  reflected.  Luga,  his  wife,  he  had  left  weep- 
ing at  the  station ;  but  since  the  day  she  disap- 
peared with  his  orchestra  for  twenty-four  hours, 
Pobloff 's  affection  had  gradually  cooled  ;  he  was 
leaving  the  capital  without  a  pang  on  a  month's 
leave  of  absence  — a  delicate  courtesy  of  the 
king's  extended  to  a  brother  ruler,  though  a 
semi-barbarous  one,  the  khedive  of  Ramboul. 

Pobloff  was  not  sad  nor  was  he  jubilantly 
glad.  The  journey  was  an  easy  one;  a  night 
and  day  and  the  next  night  would  see  him,  God 
willing, — he  crossed  himself, — in  the  semi-tropi- 
cal city  of  Nirgiz.  From  Balak  to  Nirgiz,  from 
southeastern  Europe  to  Asia  Minor ! 

The  heir-apparent  was  said  to  be  a  music- 
249 


VISIONARIES 

loving  lad,  very  much  under  the  cunning  thumb 
of  his  grim  old  aunt,  who,  rumour  averred,  wore 
a  black  beard,  and  was  the  scourge  of  her  little 
kingdom.  All  that  might  be  changed  when  the 
prince  would  reach  his  majority ;  his  failing 
health  and  morbid  melancholy  had  frightened 
the  grand  vizier,  and  the  king  of  Balakia  had 
been  petitioned  to  send  Pobloff,  the  composer, 
designer  of  inimitable  musical  masques,  Pobloff, 
the  irresistible  interpreter  of  Chopin,  to  the  aid 
of  the  ailing  youth. 

So  this  middle-aged  David  left  his  nest  to  go 
harp  for  a  Saul  yet  in  his  adolescence.  What 
his  duties  were  to  be  Pobloff  had  not  the  slight- 
est idea.  He  had  received  no  special  instruc- 
tions; a  member  of  the  royal  household  bore 
him  the  official  mandate  and  a  purse  fat  enough 
to  soothe  his  wife's  feelings.  After  appointing 
his  first  violin  conductor  of  the  Balakian  Orches- 
tra during  his  absence,  the  fussy,  stout,  good- 
natured  Russian  (he  was  born  at  Kiew,  1865,  the 
biographical  dictionaries  say)  secured  a  sleeping 
compartment  on  the  Ramboul  express,  from  the 
windows  of  which  he  contemplated  with  some 
satisfaction  the  flat  land  that  gradually  faded 
in  the  mists  of  night  as  the  train  tore  its  way 
noisily  over  a  rude  road-bed. 

II 

Pobloff  slept.     He  usually  snored ;   but  this 
evening  he  was  too  fatigued.     He  heard  not  the 
sudden  stoppages  at  lonely  way  stations  where 
250 


HALL  OF  THE  MISSING  FOOTSTEPS 

hoarse  voices  and  a  lantern  represented  the  life 
of  the  place ;  he  did  not  heed  the  engine  as  it 
thirstily  sucked  water  from  a  tank  in  the  heart 
of  the  Karpakians  ;  and  he  was  surprised, 
pleased,  proud,  when  a  hot  February  sun, 
shining  through  his  window,  awoke  him. 

It  was  six  o'clock  of  a  fine  morning,  and  the 
train  was  toiling  up  a  precipitous  grade  to  the 
spine  of  the  mountain,  where  the  down-slope 
would  begin  and  air-brakes  rule.  Pobloff  looked 
about  him.  He  scratched  his  long  nose,  a  char- 
acteristic gesture,  and  began  wondering  when 
coffee  would  be  ready.  He  pressed  the  bell. 
The  guard  entered,  a  miserable  bandit  who 
bravely  wore  his  peaked  hat  with  green  plumes 
a  la  Tyrol.  He  spoke  four  tongues  and  many 
dialects ;  Pobloff  calculated  his  monthly  salary 
at  forty  roubles. 

"  No,  Excellency,  the  coffee  will  be  hot  and  re- 
freshing at  Kerb,  where  we  arrive  about  seven." 
He  cleared  his  throat,  put  out  his  hand,  bowed 
low,  and  disappeared.  The  composer  grumbled. 
Kerb !  —  not  until  that  wretched  eyrie  in  the 
clouds !  And  such  coffee !  No  matter.  Pob- 
loff never  felt  in  robuster  health ;  his  irritable 
nerves  were  calmed  by  a  sound  night's  sleep. 
The  air  was  fresher  than  down  in  the  malarial 
valley,  where  stood  the  shining  towers  of  Balak  ; 
he  could  see  them  pinked  by  the  morning  sun 
and  low  on  the  horizon.  All  together  he  was 
glad.  .  .  . 

Hello,  this  must  be  Kerb !     A  moment  later 

251 


VISIONARIES 

Pobloff  bellowed  for  the  guard;  he  had  shat- 
tered the  electric  annunciator  by  his  violence. 
Then,  not  waiting  to  be  served,  he  ran  into 
the  vestibule,  and  soon  was  on  the  station 
platform,  inhaling  huge  drafts  of  air  into 
his  big  chest.  Ah !  It  was  glorious  up  there. 
What  surprised  him  was  the  number  of  human 
beings  clambering  over  the  steps,  running  and 
gabbling  like  a  lot  of  animals  let  loose  from 
their  cages.  The  engineer  beside  his  quivering 
machine  enjoyed  his  morning  coffee.  And  there 
were  many  turbaned  pagans  and  some  veiled 
women  mixed  with  the  crowd. 

The  sparkling  of  bright  colours  and  bizarre 
costumes  did  not  disturb  Pobloff,  who  had  lived 
too  long  on  anonymous  borders,  where  Jew, 
Christian,  Turk,  Slav,  African,  and  outlandish 
folk  generally  melted  into  a  civilization  which 
still  puzzled  ethnologists. 

A  negro,  gorgeously  clad,  guarding  closely  a 
slim  female,  draped  from  head  to  foot  in  vir- 
ginal white,  attracted  the  musician.  The  man's 
face  was  monstrous  in  its  suggestion  of  evil,  and 
furthermore  shocking,  because  his  nose  was  a 
gaping  hole.  Evidently  a  scimiter  had  per- 
formed this  surgical  operation,  Pobloff  mused. 

The  giant's  eyes  offended  him,  they  so  stared, 
and  threateningly. 

Pobloff  was  not  a  coward.  After  his  adven- 
ture in  Balak,  he  feared  neither  man  nor  devil, 
and  he  insolently  returned  the  black  fellow's 
gaze.  They  stood  about  a  buffet  and  drank 
252 


HALL  OF  THE  MISSING  FOOTSTEPS 

coffee.  The  young  woman  —  her  outlines  were 
girlish  —  did  not  touch  anything;  she  turned 
her  face  in  Pobloffs  direction,  so  he  fancied,  and 
spoke  at  intervals  to  her  attendant. 

"  I  must  be  a  queer-looking  bird  to  this  Turk 
and  her  keeper  —  probably  some  Georgian 
going  to  a  rich  Mussulman's  harem  in  company 
with  his  eunuch,"  Pobloff  repeated  to  himself. 

A  gong  was  banged.  Before  its  strident 
vibrations  had  ceased  troubling  the  thin  morning 
air,  the  train  began  to  move  slowly  out  of  Kerb. 
Pobloff  again  was  glad. 

He  remained  on  the  rear  platform  of  his  car 
as  long  as  the  white  station,  beginning  to  blister 
under  a  tropical  sun,  was  in  sight.  Then  he 
sought  his  compartment.  His  amazement  and 
rage  were  great  when  he  found  the  two 
window  seats  occupied  by  the  negro  and  the 
mysterious  creature.  Pobloff 's  bag  was  tum- 
bled in  a  corner,  his  overcoat,  hat,  and  umbrella 
tossed  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  The  big 
black  man  bared  his  teeth  smilingly,  the 
shrouded  girl  shrank  back  as  if  in  fear. 

"Well,  I'll  be !"  began  the  composer. 

Then  he  leaned  over  and  pushed  the  button,  the 
veins  in  his  forehead  like  whipcords,  his  throat 
parched  with  wrath.  But  to  no  avail  —  the  bell 
was  broken.  Pobloff's  first  impulse  was  to  take 
the  smiling  Ethiopian  by  the  neck  and  pitch 
him  out.  There  were  several  reasons  why  he 
did  not :  the  giant  looked  dangerous  ;  he  plainly 
carried  a  brace  of  pistols,  and  at  least  one  dag- 
253 


VISIONARIES 

ger,  the  jewelled  handle  of  which  flashed  over 
his  glaring  sash  of  many  tints.  And  then  the 
lady  —  Pobloff  was  very  gallant,  too  gallant,  his 
wife  said.  The  bell  would  not  ring !  What 
was  he  to  do  ?  He  soon  made  up  his  mind, 
supple  Slav  that  he  was.  With  a  muttered 
apology  he  sank  back  and  closed  his  eyes  in 
polite  despair. 

His  consternation  was  overwhelming  when  a 
voice  addressed  him  in  Russian,  a  contralto 
voice  of  some  indefinable  timbre,  the  voice  of 
a  female,  yet  not  without  epicene  intonations. 
His  eyes  immediately  opened.  From  her  gauze 
veiling  the  young  woman  spoke  :  — 

"  We  are  sorry  to  derange  you.  The  guard 
made  a  mistake.  Pardon!"  The  tone  was 
slightly  condescending,  as  if  the  goddess  behind 
the  cloud  had  deigned  to  notice  a  mere  mortal. 
Her  attendant  was  smiling,  and  to  Pobloff  his 
grin  resembled  a  newly  sliced  watermelon.  But 
her  voice  filled  him  with  ecstasy.  His  ear,  as 
sensitive  as  the  eye  of  a  Claude  Monet,  noted 
every  infinitesimal  variation  in  tone-colour,  and 
each  shade  was  a  symbol  for  the  fantastic  im- 
agination of  this  poetic  composer.  The  girlish 
voice  affected  him  strangely.  It  pierced  his  soul 
like  a  poniard.  It  made  his  spine  chilly.  It 
evoked  visions  of  white  women  languorously 
moving  in  processional  attitudes  beneath  the 
chaste  rays  of  an  implacable  moon.  The  voice 
modulated  into  crisp  morning  inflections  :  — 

"You  are  going  far,  Excellency?"  She  kne\v 
254 


HALL  OF  THE  MISSING  FOOTSTEPS 

him !  And  the  slave  who  grinned  and  grinned 
and  never  spoke  —  what  was  he  f  She  seemed 
to  follow  Pobloff's  thought. 

"  Hamet  is  dumb.  His  tongue  was  cut  at  the 
same  time  he  lost  his  nose.  It  all  happened  at 
the  siege  of  Yerkutz." 

Pobloff  at  last  found  words. 

"  Poor  fellow  ! "  he  said  sympathetically,  and 
then  forgot  all  about  the  mutilated  one.  "  You 
are  welcome  to  this  compartment,"  he  assured 
her  in  his  oiliest  manner.  "  What  surprises  me 
is  that  I  did  not  see  your  Serene  Highness  when 
we  left  Balak."  She  started  at  the  title  that 
he  bestowed  upon  her,  and  he  inwardly  chuckled. 
Clever  dog,  Pobloff,  clever  dog !  Her  eyes 
were  brilliant  despite  obstructing  veils. 

"  I  was  en  route  to  Balak  yesterday,  but  my 
servant  became  ill  and  I  stopped  over  night  at 
Kerb."  Pobloff  was  entranced.  She  was  un- 
doubtedly a  young  dame  of  noble  birth  and 
her  freedom,  the  freedom  of  a  European  woman, 
delighted  him.  It  also  puzzled. 

"  How  is  it  —  ?"  he  asked. 

But  they  had  begun  that  fearful  descent,  at 
once  the  despair  and  delight  of  engineers.  The 
mountain  fell  away  rapidly  as  the  long,  clumsy 
train  raced  down  its  flank  at  a  breakneck  pace. 
Pobloff  shivered  and  clutched  the  arms  of  his 
seat.  He  saw  nothing  but  deep  blue  sky  and 
the  tall  top  of  an  occasional  tree.  The  racket 
was  terrific,  the  heat  depressing.  She  sat  in 
her  corner,  apparently  sleeping,  while  the  giant 

255 


VISIONARIES 

smiled,  always  smiled,  never  removing  his  ugly 
eyes  from  the  perspiring  countenance  of  Pobloff . 

As  they  neared  earth's  level,  midday  was  over. 
Pobloff  hungered.  Before  he  could  go  in  search 
of  the  ever  absent  guard,  the  woman  suddenly 
sat  up,  clapped  her  hands,  and  said  something ; 
but  whether  it  was  Turkish,  Roumanian,  or 
Greek,  he  couldn't  distinguish.  A  hamper  was 
hauled  from  under  the  seat  by  the  servant,  and 
to  his  joy  Pobloff  saw  white  rolls,  grapes,  wine, 
figs,  and  cheese.  He  bowed  and  began  eat- 
ing. The  others  looked  at  him  and  for  a  mo- 
ment he  could  have  sworn  he  heard  faint 
laughter. 

"I  am  so  hungry,"  he  said  apologetically. 
"  And  you,  Serenity,  won't  you  join  me  ? "  He 
offered  her  fruit.  It  was  declined  with  a  short 
nod.  He  was  dying  to  smoke,  and,  behold ! 
priceless  Turkish  tobacco  was  thrust  into  his 
willing  hand.  He  rolled  a  stout  cigarette, 
lighted  it.  Then  a  sigh  reached  his  ears.  "  The 
lady  smokes,"  he  thought,  and  slyly  chuckled. 

A  sound  of  something  tearing  was  heard,  and 
a  pair  of  beautiful  hands  reached  for  the  tobacco. 
In  a  few  moments  the  slender  fingers  were  press- 
ing a  cigarette ;  the  slave  lighted  a  wax  fusee ; 
the  lady  took  it,  put  the  cigarette  in  a  rent  of 
her  veil,  and  a  second  volume  of  odorous  vapour 
arose.  Pobloff  leaned  back,  stupefied.  A 
Mohammedan  woman  smoking  in  a  Trans-Cau- 
casian railway  carriage  before  a  Frank !  Stu- 
pendous !  He  felt  unaccountably  gay. 
256 


HALL  OF  THE  MISSING  FOOTSTEPS 

"  This  is  joyful,"  he  said  aloud.  She  smoked 
fervently.  "  Western  manners  are  certainly  in- 
vading the  East,"  he  continued,  hoping  to  hear 
again  that  voice  of  marvellous  resonance.  She 
smoked.  "Why,  even  Turkish  women  have 
been  known  to  study  music  in  Paris." 

"  I  am  not  a  Turk,"  she  said  in  her  deepest 
chest  tones. 

"  Pardon !  A  Russian,  perhaps  ?  Your  ac- 
cent is  perfect.  I  am  a  Russian."  She  did 
not  reply. 

The  day  declined,  and  there  was  no  more 
conversation.  As  the  train  devoured  leagues 
of  swampy  territory,  villages  were  passed. 
The  journey's  end  was  nearing.  Soon  mead- 
ows were  seen  surrounding  magnificent  villas. 
A  wide,  shallow  river  was  crossed,  the  Oxal; 
Pobloff  knew  by  his  pocket  map  that  Nirgiz 
was  nigh.  And  for  the  first  time  in  twenty- 
four  hours  he  sorrowed.  Despite  his  broad 
invitations  and  unmistakable  hints,  he  could 
not  trap  his  travelling  companion  into  an  avowal 
of  her  identity,  of  her  destination.  Nothing 
could  be  coaxed  from  the  giant,  and  it  was  with 
a  sinking  heart  —  Pobloff  was  very  sentimental 
-  that  he  saw  the  lights  of  Nirgiz ;  a  few  min- 
utes later  the  train  entered  the  Oriental  station. 
In  the  heat,  the  clamour  of  half  a  thousand  voices, 
yelling  unknown  jargons,  his  resolution  to  keep 
his  companions  in  view  went  for  naught.  Beset 
by  jabbering  porters,  he  did  not  have  an  oppor- 
tunity to  say  farewell  to  the  veiled  lady ;  with 
257 


VISIONARIES 

her  escort  she  had  disappeared  when  the  car 
stopped — and  without  a  word  of  thanks !  Pob- 
loff  was  wretched. 


Ill 

It  was  past  nine  o'clock  as  he  roamed  the 
vast  garden  surrounding  the  Palace  of  a  Thou- 
sand Sounds  —  thus  named  because  of  the  tiny 
bells  tinkling  about  its  marble  dome.  He  had 
eaten  an  unsatisfying  meal  in  a  small  antecham- 
ber, waited  upon  by  a  stupid  servant.  And  worse 
still,  the  food  was  ill  cooked.  On  presenting  his 
credentials,  earlier  in  the  evening,  the  grand 
vizier,  a  sneaky-appearing  man,  had  welcomed 
him  coldly,  telling  him  that  her  Serene  Highness 
was  too  exhausted  to  receive  so  late  in  the  day ; 
she  had  granted  too  many  audiences  that  after- 
noon. 

"  And  the  prince  ? "  he  queried.  The  prince 
was  away  hunting  by  moonlight,  and  could  not 
be  seen  for  at  least  a  day.  In  the  interim,  Pob- 
loff  was  told  to  make  himself  at  home,  as  became 
such  a  distinguished  composer  and  artistic  pleni- 
potentiary of  Balakia's  king.  Then  he  was 
bowed  out  of  the  chamber,  down  the  low  mala- 
chite staircase,  into  his  supper  room.  It  was  all 
very  disturbing  to  a  man  of  Pobloff's  equable 
disposition. 

He  thought  of  Luga,  his  little  wife,  his  dove; 
but  not  long.  She  did  not  appeal  to  his  heart 
of  hearts ;  she  was  a  coquette.  Pobloff  sighed. 

258 


HALL  OF  THE  MISSING  FOOTSTEPS 

He  was  midway  in  his  mortal  life,  a  dangerous 
period  for  susceptible  manhood.  He  lifted  moist 
eyes  to  the  stars ;  the  night  was  delicious.  He 
rested  upon  a  cushioned  couch  of  stone.  About 
him  the  moonlight  painted  the  trees,  until 
they  seemed  like  liquefied  ermine ;  the  palace 
arose  in  pyramidal  surges  of  marble  to  the 
sky,  meeting  the  moonbeams  as  if  in  friendly 
defiance,  and  casting  them  back  to  heaven  with 
triumphant  reflections.  And  the  stillness,  pro- 
found as  the  tomb,  was  punctuated  by  glancing 
fireflies.  Pobloff  hummed  melodiously. 

"A  night  to  make  music,"  whispered  a  deep, 
sweet  voice.  Before  he  could  rise,  his  heart 
bounding  as  if  stung  to  its  centre,  a  woman, 
swathed  in  white,  sat  beside  him,  touched  him, 
put  such  a  pressure  upon  his  shoulder  that  his 
blood  began  to  stir.  It  was  she.  He  stumbled 
in  his  speech.  She  laughed,  and  he  ground  his 
teeth,  for  this  alone  saved  him  from  foolishness, 
from  mad  behaviour. 

"  Maestro  —  you  could  make  music  this  lovely 
night  ?  "  Pobloff  started. 

"  In  God's  name,  who  are  you,  and  what  are 
you  doing  here  ?  Where  did  you  go  this  even- 
ing ?  I  missed  you.  Ah  !  unhappy  man  that  I 
am,  you  will  drive  me  crazy  !  " 

She  did  not  smile  now,  but  pressed  close  to 
him. 

"  I  am  a  prisoner  —  like  yourself,"  she  replied 
simply. 

"  A  prisoner !  How  a  prisoner  ?  I  am  not  a 
259 


VISIONARIES 

prisoner,  but  an  envoy  from  my  king  to  the  sick 
princeling." 

She  sighed. 

"  The  poor,  mad  prince,"  she  said,  "  he  is  in 
need  of  your  medicine,  sadly.  He  sent  for  me 
a  year  ago,  and  I  am  now  his  prisoner  for 
life." 

"  But  I  saw  you  on  the  train,  a  day's  journey 
hence,"  interrupted  the  musician. 

"Yes,  I  had  escaped,  and  was  being  taken 
back  by  black  Hamet  when  we  met." 

Pobloff  whistled.  So  the  mystery  was  dis- 
closed. A  little  white  slave  from  the  seraglio 
of  this  embryo  tyrant  had  flown  the  cage !  No 
wonder  she  was  watched,  little  surprise  that  she 
did  not  care  to  eat.  He  straightened  himself, 
the  hair  on  his  round  head  like  porcupine  quills. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  he  exclaimed  in 
accents  paternal,  "leave  all  to  me.  If  you  do 
not  wish  to  stay  in  this  place,  you  may  rely  on 
me.  When  I  see  this  same  young  man,  —  he 
must  be  a  nice  sprig  of  royalty  !  —  I  propose 
to  tell  him  what  I  think  of  him."  Pobloff  threw 
out  his  chest  and  snorted  with  pride.  Again  he 
fancied  that  he  heard  suppressed  laughter.  He 
darted  glances  in  every  direction,  but  the  fall  of 
distant  waters  smote  upon  his  ears  like  the  cre- 
puscular music  of  Chopin.  His  companion  shook 
with  ill-suppressed  emotion.  It  was  some  time 
before  she  could  speak. 

"  Pobloff,"  she  begged,  in  her  dangerous  con- 
tralto, a  contralto  like  the  medium  register  of  a 
260 


HALL  OF  THE  MISSING  FOOTSTEPS 

clarinet,  "  Pobloff,  let  me  adjure  you  to  be  care- 
ful. Your  coming  here  has  caused  political 
disturbances.  The  aunt  of  the  prince  hates 
music  as  much  as  he  adores  it.  She  is  no  party 
to  your  invitation.  So  be  on  your  guard.  Even 
now  there  may  be  spies  in  the  shrubbery."  She 
put  her  hand  on  his  arm.  It  was  too  much.  In 
an  instant,  despite  her  feeble  struggle,  the  ar- 
dent musician  grasped  the  creature  that  had 
tantalized  him  since  morning,  and  kissed  her 
a  dozen  times.  His  head  whirled.  Pobloff! 
Pobloff!  a  voice  cried  in  his  brain  —  and  only 
yesterday  you  left  your  Luga,  your  pretty  pigeon, 
your  wife ! 

The  girl  was  dragged  away  from  him.  In  the 
moonshine  he  saw  the  grinning  Hamet,  suspi- 
ciously observing  him.  The  runaway  stood  up 
and  pressed  Pobloff's  hand  desperately,  uttering 
the  cry  of  her  forlorn  heart :  — 

"  Don't  play  in  the  great  hall ;  don't  play  in 
that  accursed  place.  You  will  be  asked,  but 
refuse.  Make  any  excuse,  but  do  not  set  foot 
on  its  ebon  floors." 

He  was  so  confused  by  the  strangeness  of 
this  adventure,  so  confused  by  the  admonition 
of  the  unknown  when  he  saw  her  white  dra- 
peries disappear,  that  his  jaw  fell  and  his 
courage  wavered.  A  moment  later  two  oddly 
caparisoned  soldiers,  bearing  lights,  approached, 
and  in  the  name  of  her  Highness  invited  him 
make  midnight  music  in  the  Palace  of  a  Thou- 
sand Sounds. 

261 


VISIONARIES 

IV 

Seated  before  a  Steinway  grand  pianoforte, 
an  instrument  that  found  its  way  to  this  far- 
away province  through  the  caprice  of  some  ar- 
tistic potentate,  Pobloff  nervously  preluded. 
Notwithstanding  the  warning  of  the  girl,  he 
had  allowed  himself  to  be  convoyed  to  the  great 
Hall  of  Ebony,  and  there,  quite  alone,  he  sat 
waiting  for  some  cue  to  begin.  None  came. 
He  glanced  curiously  about  him.  For  all  the 
signs  of  humanity  he  might  as  well  have  been 
on  the  heights  of  Kerb,  out  among  its  thorny 
groves,  or  in  its  immemorial  forests.  He  pre- 
luded as  he  gazed  around.  He  could  see,  by  the 
dim  light  of  two  flambeaux  set  in  gold  sconces, 
column  after  column  of  blackness  receding  into 
inky  depths  of  darkness.  A  fringe  of  light  en- 
circled his  instrument,  and  beside  him  was  a  gal- 
lery, so  vast  that  it  became  a  gulf  of  the  infinite 
at  a  hundred  paces.  Now,  Pobloff  was  a  brave 
man.  He  believed  that  once  upon  a  time  he 
had  peered  into  strange  crevices  of  space ;  what 
novelty  could  existence  hold  for  him  after  that 
shuddering  experience  ?  Again  he  looked  into 
the  tenebrous  recesses  of  the  hall.  He  saw  noth- 
ing, heard  nothing. 

His  fingers  went  their  own  way  over  the  key- 
board. Finally,  following  some  latent  impulse, 
they  began  to  shape  the  opening  measures  of 
Chopin's  Second  Ballade,  the  one  of  the  enig- 
matic tonalities,  sometimes  called  The  Lake 
262 


HALL  OF  THE  MISSING  FOOTSTEPS 

of  the  Mermaids.  It  began  with  the  chant- 
ing, childish  refrain,  a  Lithuanian  fairy-tale  of 
old,  and  as  its  naive,  drowsy,  lulling  measures 

—  the  voices  of  wicked,  wooing  sirens  —  sang 
and  sank  in  recurrent  rhythms,  Pobloff  heard 

—  this  time  he  was   sure  —  the  regular  rever- 
beration of  distant  footsteps.     It  was  as  if  the 
monotonous  beat  of  the  music  were  duplicated  in 
some  sounding  mirror,  some  mirror  that  magnified 
hideously,  hideously  mimicked  the  melody.     Yet 
these  footfalls  murmured  as  a  sea-shell.     Every 
phrase  stood  out  before  the  pianist,  exquisitely 
clear ;  his  brain  had  only  once  before  harboured 
such  an  exalted  mood.     There  was  the  expecta- 
tion of  great  things  coming  to  pass  ;  dim  rumours 
of  an  apocalyptic  future,  when  the  glory  that 
never  was  on  sea  or  land  should  rend  the  veil 
of  the  visible  and  make  clear  all  that  obscures 
and  darkens.      The  transfiguration   which   in- 
forms the  soul  of  one  taken  down  in  epileptic 
seizure   possessed   him.      Every  cranny  of   his 
being  was  flooded  with  overmastering  light  — 
and  the  faint  sound  of  footsteps  marking  sin- 
ister time  to  his  music,  drew  closer,  closer. 

Shaking  off  an  insane  desire  to  join  his  voice 
in  the  immortal  choiring  of  the  Cherubim,  Pob- 
loff  dashed  into  the  passionate  storm-scream  of 
the  music,  and  like  a  pack  of  phantom  blood- 
hounds the  footsteps  pressed  him  in  the  race. 
He  played  as  run  men  from  starving  wolves  in 
Siberian  wastes.  To  stop  would  mean  —  God  ! 
what  would  it  mean  ?  These  were  no  mortal 
263 


VISIONARIES 

steps  that  crowded  upon  his  sonorous  trail. 
His  fingers  flew  over  the  keys  as  he  finished 
the  scurrying  tempests  of  tone.  Again  the  first 
swaying  refrain,  and  Pobloff  heard  the  invisible 
multitude  of  feet  pause  in  the  night,  as  if  wait- 
ing the  moment  when  the  Ballade  would  cease. 
He  quivered ;  the  surprises  and  terrors  were 
telling  upon  his  well-seasoned  nerves. 

Still  he  sped  on,  fearing  the  tremendous  out- 
burst at  the  close,  where  Chopin  throws  over- 
board his  'soul,  and  with  blood-red  sails  signals 
the  hellish  Willis,  the  Lamias  of  the  lake,  to 
his  side.  Ah,  if  Pobloff  could  but  thus  portion 
his  soul  as  hostage  to  the  infernal  host  that  now 
hemmed  him  in  on  all  sides !  Riding  over  the 
black  and  white  rocks  of  his  keyboard,  he  felt 
as  if  in  the  clutches  of  an  unknown  force.  He 
discerned  death  in  the  distance  —  death  and  the 
unknown  horror  —  and  was  powerless  to  resist. 
Still  the  galloping  of  unseen  feet,  horrible,  naked 
flesh,  that  clattered  and  scraped  the  earth ;  the 
panting,  hoarse  and  subdued,  of  a  mighty  pack, 
whose  thirst  for  destruction,  for  revenge,  was 
unslaked.  And  always  the  same  trampling  of 
human  feet !  Were  they  human  ?  Did  not 
resilient  bones  tell  the  tale  of  brutes  viler  than 
men  ?  The  glimmering  lights  seemed  cowed, 
as  they  sobbed  in  vacuity  and  slowly  expired. 

Pobloff  no  longer  asked  himself  what  it  meant; 

he  was  become  a  maniac,  pursued  by  deathless 

devils.     He  could  have  flown  to  the  end  of  the 

universe  in  this  Ballade ;  but,  at  last,  his  heart 

264 


HALL  OF  THE  MISSING  FOOTSTEPS 

cracking,  head  bursting,  face  livid,  overtaken 
by  the  Footsteps  of  the  Missing,  he  smashed 
both  fists  upon  the  keys  and  fell  forward 
despairingly.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  The  gigantic,  noseless  negro,  the  grand 
vizier  himself,  sternly  regarded  the  prince,  who 
stood,  torch  in  hand,  near  the  shattered  piano- 
forte. The  dumb  spoke :  — 

"  Let  us  hope,  Exalted  Highness,  that  your 
masquerades  and  mystifications  are  over  for- 
ever. To-day's  prankish  sport  may  put  us  to 
trouble  for  a  satisfactory  explanation."  He 
waved  his  hand  vaguely  in  the  direction  of  the 
prostrate  composer.  "  And  hasheesh  some- 
times maddens  for  a  lifetime ! "  He  lightly 
touched  the  drugged  Pobloff  with  his  enor- 
mous foot. 

The  youthful  runaway  ashamedly  lowered  his 
head  —  in  reality  he  adored  music  with  all  the 
fulness  of  his  cruel,  faunlike  nature. 


265 


XV 
THE   CURSORY   LIGHT 

To  this  day  Pinton  could  never  explain  why 
he  looked  out  of  that  pantry  window.  He  had 
reached  his  home  in  a  hungry  condition.  He 
was  tired  and  dead  broke,  so  he  had  resolved 
to  forage.  He  had  listened  for  two  or  three, 
perhaps  five,  minutes  in  the  hall  of  his  boarding- 
house;  then  he  went,  soft-footed,  to  Mrs.  Hal- 
lam's  pantry  on  the  second  floor.  He  was  sure 
that  it  was  open,  he  was  equally  sure  that  it  con- 
tained something  edible  on  its  hospitable  shelves. 
Ah !  who  has  not  his  bread  at  midnight  stolen, 
ye  heavenly  powers,  ye  know  him  not ! 

Pinton,  however,  knew  one  thing,  and  that 
was  a  ravenous  desire  to  sink  his  teeth  into  pie, 
custard,  or  even  bread.  He  felt  with  large, 
eager  hands  along  the  wall  on  the  pantry  side. 
With  feverish  joy  he  touched  the  knob  —  a 
friendly  knob,  despite  its  cold,  distant  glaze  — 
of  the  door  he  sought. 

Pinton  gave  a  tug,  and  then  his  heart  stopped 
beating.  The  door  was  locked.  Something  like 
a  curse,  something  like  a  prayer,  rose  to  his  lips, 
and  his  arms  fell  helplessly  to  his  side. 

Mrs.  Hallam,  realizing  that  it  was  Saturday 
266 


THE  CURSORY  LIGHT 

night  —  the  predatory  night  of  the  week  —  had 
secured  her  pastry,  her  confitures,  her  celebrated 
desserts ;  and  so  poor  Pinton,  all  his  sweet  teeth 
furiously  aching,  his  mouth  watering,  stood  on 
the  hither  side  of  Paradise,  a  baffled  peri  in 
pantaloons  ! 

After  a  pause,  full  of  pain  and  troublous  pre- 
visions of  a  restless,  discontented  night,  Pinton 
grew  angry  and  pulled  at  the  knob  of  the  door, 
thinking,  perhaps,  that  it  might  abate  a  jot  of 
its  dignified  resistance.  It  remained  immovable, 
grimly  antagonistic,  until  his  fingers  grew  hot 
and  cold  as  they  touched  a  bit  of  cold  metal. 

The  key  in  the  lock!  In  a  second  it  was 
turned,  and  the  hungry  one  was  within  and  rest- 
lessly searching  and  fumbling  for  food.  He 
felt  along  the  lower  shelves  and  met  apples, 
oranges,  and  sealed  bottles  containing  ruined, 
otherwise  miscalled  preserved,  fruit.  He  knelt 
on  the  dresser  and  explored  the  upper  shelf. 
Ah,  here  was  richness  indeed !  Pies,  pies,  cakes, 
pies,  frosted  cakes,  cakes  sweating  golden,  fruity 
promises,  and  cakes  as  icy  as  the  hand  of  charity. 
Pinton  was  happy,  glutton  that  he  was,  and  he 
soon  filled  the  pockets  of  his  overcoat.  What 
Mrs.  Hallam  might  say  in  the  morning  he  cared 
not.  Let  the  galled  jade  wince,  his  breakfast 
appetite  would  be  unwrung ;  and  then  he  started 
violently,  lost  his  balance,  and  almost  fell  to  the 
floor. 

Opposite  him  was  the  window  of  the  pantry, 
which  faced  the  wall  of  the  next  house.  Pinton 
267 


VISIONARIES 

had  never  been  in  the  pantry  by  daylight,  so  he 
was  rudely  shocked  by  the  glance  of  a  light  —  a 
cursory,  moving  light.  It  showed  him  a  window 
in  the  other  house  and  a  pair  of  stairs.  It  flick- 
ered about  an  old  baluster  and  a  rusty  carpet,  it 
came  from  below,  it  mounted  upward  and  was 
lost  to  view. 

The  burglar  of  pies,  the  ravisher  of  cakes, 
was  almost  shocked  by  this  unexpected  light. 
He  watched  it  dancing  fantastically  on  the  dis- 
coloured wall  of  the  house ;  he  wondered  —  ill  at 
ease  —  if  it  would  flash  in  his  face.  His  sur- 
mise was  realized,  for  a  streak  of  illumination 
reached  the  narrow  chamber  in  which  he  cowered, 
and  then  he  was  certain  some  one  was  looking 
at  him.  He  never  budged,  for  he  was  too 
frightened.  Suddenly  the  light  vanished  and  a 
head  was  dimly  silhouetted  in  the  window  op- 
posite. It  nodded  to  Pin  ton.  Pinton  stared 
stupidly,  and  the  head  disappeared.  The  hun- 
gry man,  his  appetite  now  gone,  was  numb  and 
terrified. 

What  did  it  mean,  who  was  the  man  ?  A 
detective,  or  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Hallam's  in  a  coign 
from  which  the  plunderers  of  her  pantry  could 
be  noted  ?  Beady  repentance  stood  out  on 
Pinton's  forehead. 

And  the  light  came  back.  This  time  it  was 
intelligible,  for  it  was  a  lantern  in  the  hand  of 
a  young  man  of  about  thirty.  His  face  was  open 
and  smiling.  He  wore  his  hair  rather  long  for 
an  American,  and  it  was  blond  and  curling. 
268 


THE  CURSORY  LIGHT 

He  surveyed  Pinton  for  a  moment,  then  he 
said,  in  a  most  agreeable  voice  :  — 

"  What  luck,  old  pal  ?  " 

Pinton  dropped  his  pies,  slammed  the  win- 
dow, and  got  to  his  bedroom  as  fast  as  his  ner- 
vous legs  could  carry  him.  He  undressed  in  a 
nightmare,  and  did  not  sleep  until  the  early 
summer  sun  shot  hot  shafts  of  heat  into  his 
chamber. 

With  a  shamed  Sabbath  face  he  arose,  dressed, 
and  descended  to  his  morning  meal.  Mrs.  Hal- 
lam  was  sitting  in  orotund  silence,  but  seemed 
in  good  humour.  She  asked  him  casually  if 
he  had  enjoyed  his  Saturday  evening,  and  quite 
as  casually  damned  the  wandering  cats  that 
had  played  havoc  in  her  pantry.  She  remarked 
that  leaving  windows  open  was  a  poor  practice, 
even  if  hospitable  in  appearance,  and  nervous 
Mr.  Pinton  drank  his  coffee  in  silent  assent  and 
then  hurried  off  to  the  church  where  he  trod  the 
organ  pedals  for  a  small  salary's  sake. 

The  following  Friday  was  rehearsal  night, 
and  the  organist  left  his  choir  in  a*  bad  humour. 
His  contralto  had  not  attended,  and  as  she  was 
the  only  artiste  and  the  only  good-looking  girl 
of  the  lot,  Pinton  took  it  into  his  head  to  be- 
come jealous.  She  had  not  paid  the  slightest 
attention  to  him,  so  he  could  not  attribute  her 
absence  to  a  personal  slight ;  but  he  felt 
aggrieved  and  vaguely  irritated. 

Pin  ton's  musicianship  was  not  profound.  He 
had  begun  life  as  an  organ  salesman.  He  ma- 
269 


VISIONARIES 

nipulated  the  cabinet  organ  for  impossible  cus- 
tomers in  Wisconsin,  and  he  came  to  New  York 
because  he  was  offered  a  better  chance. 

The  inevitable  church  position  occurred. 
Then  came  Zundel  voluntaries  and  hard  pedal 
practice.  At  last  Mendelssohn's  organ  sonatas 
were  reached  and  with  them  a  call  —  organists, 
like  pastors,  have  calls — to  a  fashionable  church. 
The  salary  was  fair  and  Mr.  Pinton  grew  side- 
whiskers. 

He  heard  Paderewski  play  Chopin,  and  be- 
came a  crazy  lover  of  the  piano.  He  hired  a 
small  upright  and  studied  finger  exercises.  He 
consulted  a  thousand  books  on  technic,  and  in  the 
meantime  could  not  play  Czerny's  velocity  studies. 

He  grew  thin,  and  sought  the  advice  of  many 
pianists.  He  soon  found  that  pressing  your 
foot  on  the  swell  and  pulling  couplers  for  tone 
colour  were  not  the  slightest  use  in  piano  play- 
ing. Subtle  finger  pressures,  the  unloosening 
of  the  muscles,  the  delicate  art  of  nuance,  the 
art  unfelt  by  many  organists,  all  were  demanded 
of  the  pianist,  and  Pinton  almost  despaired. 

He  grew  contemptuous  of  the  king  of  instru- 
ments as  he  essayed  the  C  major  invention  of 
Bach.  He  sneered  at  stops  and  pedals,  and 
believed,  in  his  foolish  way,  that  all  polyphony 
was  bound  within  the  boards  of  the  Well-Tem- 
pered Clavichord.  Then  the  new  alto  came  to 
the  choir,  and  Pinton  —  it  being  springtide, 
when  the  blood  is  in  the  joyful  mood  —  thought 
that  he  was  in  love.  He  was  really  athirst. 
270 


THE  CURSORY  LIGHT 

This  Friday  evening  he  was  genuinely  dis- 
appointed and  thirsty.  He  turned  with  a  sink- 
ing heart  and  parched  throat  into  Pop  Pusch's 
dearly  beloved  resort.  Earlier  in  his  life  he 
had  often  solaced  himself  with  the  free  lunch 
that  John,  the  melancholy  waiter,  had  dispensed. 
Pinton' s  mind  was  a  prey  to  many  emotions  as 
he  entered  the  famous  old  place.  He  sat  down 
before  a  brown  table  and  clamoured  for  amber 
beer. 

He  was  not  alone  at  the  table.  As  Pinton 
put  the  glass  of  Pilsner  to  his  lips  he  met  the 
gaze  of  two  sardonic  eyes.  He  could  not  finish 
his  glass.  He  returned  the  look  of  the  other 
man  and  then  arose,  with  a  nervous  jerk  that 
almost  upset  the  table. 

"  Sit  down,  old  pal ;  don't  be  crazy.  I'll  never 
say  a  word.  Sit  down,  you  fool ;  don't  you  see 
people  are  looking  at  you  ? " 

The  voice  was  low,  kindly  in  intonation,  but 
it  went  through  Pinton  like  a  saw  biting  its  way 
into  wood. 

He  sat  down  all  in  a  heap.  He  knew  the 
eyes ;  he  knew  the  voice.  It  was  the  owner  of 
the  dark  lantern  —  the  mysterious  man  in  the 
other  house  of  that  last  Saturday  night.  Pinton 
felt  as  if  he  were  about  to  become  ill. 

"  Lord,  but  you  are  a  nervous  one !  "  said  the 
other,  most  reassuringly.  "  Sit  still  and  I'll 
order  brandy.  It  will  settle  your  stomach." 

That  brought  Pinton  to  his  senses  at  once. 

"  No,  no,  I'll  be  all  right  in  a  moment,"  he 
271 


VISIONARIES 

said  rather  huskily.  "I  never  drink  spirits. 
Thank  you,  all  the  same." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  the  man,  and  he 
tossed  off  his  Wurzburger.  Each  man  stealth- 
ily regarded  the  other.  Pinton  saw  the  stranger 
of  the  lantern  and  staircase.  Close  by  he  was 
handsome  and  engaging.  His  hair  was  worn 
like  a  violin  virtuoso's,  and  his  hands  were 
white,  delicate,  and  well  cared  for.  He  spoke 
first. 

"  How  did  you  make  out  on  that  job  ?  —  I 
don't  fancy  there  was  much  in  it.  Boarding- 
houses,  you  know ! " 

Pinton,  every  particle  of  colour  leaving  his 
flabby  face,  asked :  — 

"What  job?" 

The  stranger  looked  at  him  keenly  and  went 
on  rather  ironically :  — 

"You  are  the  most  nervous  duck  I  ever  ran 
across.  When  I  saw  you  last  your  pocket  was 
full  of  the  silver  plate  of  that  pantry,  and  I  can 
thank  you  for  a  fright  myself,  for  when  I  saw 
you,  I  was  just  getting  ready  to  crack  a  neat 
little  crib.  Say !  why  didn't  you  flash  your 
glim  at  me  or  make  some  friendly  signal  at 
least?  You  popped  out  of  sight  like  a  prairie 
rabbit  when  a  coyote  heaves  in  view." 

Pinton  felt  the  ground  heave  beneath  him. 
What  possible  job  could  the  man  mean  ?  What 
was  a  "  glim,"  and  what  did  the  fellow  suggest 
by  silver  plate  ?  Then  it  struck  him  all  of  a 
sudden.  Heavens !  he  was  taken  for  a  burglar 
272 


THE  CURSORY  LIGHT 

by  a  burglar.  His  presence  in  the  pie  pantry 
had  been  misinterpreted  by  a  cracksman ;  and 
he,  the  harmless  organist  of  Dr.  Bulgerly's 
church,  was  claimed  as  the  associate  of  a  dan- 
gerous, perhaps  notorious,  thief.  Pinton's  cup 
of  woe  overflowed. 

He  arose,  put  on  his  hat,  and  started  to  go. 
The  young  man  grasped  his  arm,  and  said  in  a 
most  conciliatory  fashion  :  — 

"  Perhaps  I  have  hurt  your  sensitive  nature. 
It  was  far  from  my  intention  to  do  so.  I  saluted 
you  at  first  in  the  coarse,  conventional  manner 
which  is  expected  by  members  of  our  ancient  and 
honourable  craft,  and  if  I  have  offended  you, 
I  humbly  beg  your  pardon." 

His  accent  was  that  of  a  cultivated  gentleman. 
Pinton,  somewhat  assured,  dropped  back  in  his 
seat,  and,  John  passing  by  just  then,  more  beer 
was  ordered. 

"Hear  me  before  you  condemn  me,"  said  the 
odd  young  man.  "  My  name  is  Blastion  and  I 
am  a  burglar  by  profession.  When  I  saw  you 
the  other  night,  at  work  on  the  premises  next 
door  to  me,  I  was  struck  by  your  refined  face. 
I  said  to  myself :  '  At  last  the  profession  is  being 
recruited  by  gentlemen,  men  of  culture,  men  of 
refinement.  At  last  a  profitable,  withal  risky, 
pursuit  is  being  dignified,  nay,  graced,  by  the 
proper  sort  of  person.'  And  I  saluted  you  in  a 
happy,  haphazard  fashion,  and  then  you  flew  the 
coop.  Pardon  my  relapse  into  the  vernacular." 

Pinton  felt  that  it  was  time  to  speak. 
273 


VISIONARIES 

"  Pardon  me,  if  I  interrupt  you,  Mr.  Blastion  ; 
but  I  fear  we  are  not  meeting  on  equal  ground. 
You  take  me  for  a  —  for  a  man  of  your  profes- 
sion. Indeed,  sir,  you  are  mistaken.  When 
you  discovered  me  last  Saturday  night  I  was  in 
the  pantry  of  Mrs.  Hallam,  my  boarding-house 
keeper,  searching  for  pie.  I  am  not  a  burglar 
—  pardon  my  harsh  expression ;  I  am,  instead, 
an  organist  by  profession." 

The  pallor  of  the  burglar's  countenance  testi- 
fied to  the  gravity  of  his  feeling.  He  stared 
and  blushed,  looked  apprehensively  at  the  various 
groups  of  dom'ino  players  in  the  back  room,  then, 
pulling  himself  together,  he  beckoned  to  melan- 
choly John,  and  said  :  — 

"  Johann,  two  more  beers,  please.     Yes  ? " 

Pinton  became  interested.  There  was  some- 
thing appealing  in  the  signal  the  man  flashed 
from  his  eyes  when  he  realized  that  he  had  un- 
bosomed himself  to  a  perfect  stranger,  and  not 
to  a  member  of  his  beloved  guild.  The  organist 
put  his  hand  on  the  man's  arm  and  said  —  faint 
memories  of  flatulent  discourses  from  the  Rev- 
erend Bulgerly  coming  to  his  aid :  "  Be  not 
alarmed,  my  friend.  I  will  not  betray  you.  I 
am  a  musician,  but  I  respect  art  ever,  even 
when  it  reveals  itself  in  manifold  guises." 

Pinton  felt  that  he  was  a  man  of  address,  a 
fellow  of  some  wit ;  his  confidential  and  rather 
patronizing  pose  moved  his  companion,  who 
slyly  grimaced. 

"  So  you  are  an  organist  and  not  a  member  of 
274 


THE  CURSORY  LIGHT 

the  noble  Knights  of  the  Centrebit  and  Jimmy  ? " 
he  asked  rather  sarcastically. 

"Yes,"  admitted  Pinton,  "I  am  an  organist, 
and  an  organist  who  would  fain  become  a  pian- 
ist." The  other  started. 

"  I  am  a  pianist  myself,  and  yet  I  cannot  say 
that  I  would  like  to  play  the  organ." 

"  You  are  a  pianist  ? "  said  Pinton,  in  a 
puzzled  voice. 

"Well,  why  not?  I  studied  in  Paris,  and  I 
suppose  my  piano  technic  stood  me  in  good  stead 
in  my  newer  profession.  Just  look  at  my  hands 
if  you  doubt  my  word." 

Aghast,  the  organist  examined  the  shapely 
hands  before  him.  Without  peradventure  of  a 
doubt  they  were  those  of  a  pianist,  an  expert 
pianist,  and  one  who  had  studied  assiduously. 
He  was  stupefied.  A  burglar  and  a  pianist! 
What  next  ? 

Mr.  Blastion  continued  his  edifying  remarks : 
"Yes,  I  studied  very  hard.  I  was  born  in  the 
Southwest,  and  went  to  Paris  quite  young.  I  had 
good  fingers  and  was  deft  at  sleight-of-hand 
tricks.  I  could  steal  a  handkerchief  from  a 
rabbi  —  which  is  saying  volumes  —  and  I  played 
all  the  Chopin  etudes  before  I  was  fifteen.  At 
twenty-one  I  knew  twenty-five  concertos  from 
memory,  and  my  great  piece  was  the  Don  Juan 
Fantasy.  Oh,  I  was  a  wonder !  When  Liszt 
paid  his  last  visit  to  Paris  I  played  before  him 
at  the  warerooms  of  the  Pleyels. 

"  Monsieur  Theodore  Ritter  was  anxious  for  his 

275 


VISIONARIES 

old  master  to  hear  such  a  pupil.  I  assure  you 
there  must  be  some  congenital  twist  of  evil  in  me, 
for  I  couldn't  for  the  life  of  me  forbear  picking 
the  old  fellow's  pockets  and  lifting  his  watch. 

Now  don't  look  scandalized,  Mr. eh  ?    Oh ! 

thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Pinton.  If  you  are  born 
that  way,  all  the  punishments  and  preachments — 
excuse  the  alliteration  —  will  not  stand  in  your 
way  as  a  warning.  I  have  done  time  —  I  mean 
I  have  served  several  terms  of  imprisonment, 
but  luckily  not  for  a  long  period.  I  suffered 
most  by  my  incarceration  in  not  having  a  piano. 
Not  even  a  dumb  keyboard  was  allowed,  and  I 
practised  the  Jackson  finger  exercises  in  the  air 
and  thus  kept  my  fingers  limber.  On  Saturdays 
the  warden  allowed  me,  as  a  special  favour,  to 
practise  on  the  cabinet  organ  —  an  odious  in- 
strument —  so  as  to  enable  me  to  play  on  Sun- 
days in  chapel.  Of  course  no  practice  was 
needed  for  the  wretched  music  we  poor  devils 
howled  once  a  week,  but  I  gained  one  afternoon 
in  seven  for  study  by  my  ruse. 

"  Oh,  the  joy  of  feeling  the  ivory  —  or  bone 
—  under  my  expectant  fingers !  I  played  all  the 
Chopin,  Henselt,  and  Liszt  Etudes  on  the  miser- 
able keyboard  of  the  organ.  Yes,  of  course, 
without  wind.  It  was,  I  assure  you,  a  truly  spirit- 
ual consolation.  You  can  readily  imagine  if  a 
man  has  been  in  the  habit  of  practising  all 
day,  even  if  he  does  *  burgle '  at  night,  that  to  be 
suddenly  deprived  of  all  instrumental  resources 
is  a  bitter  blow." 

276 


THE  CURSORY  LIGHT 

Pinton  stuttered  out  an  affirmative  response. 
Then  both  arose  after  paying  their  checks,  and 
the  organist  shook  the  burglar's  hand  at  the 
corner,  after  first  exacting  a  promise  that  Blas- 
tion  should  play  for  him  some  morning. 

"  With  pleasure,  my  boy.  You're  a  gentleman 
and  an  artist,  and  I  trust  you  absolutely."  And 
he  walked  away,  whistling  with  rare  skill  the 
D  flat  valse  of  Chopin. 

"  You  can  trust  me,  I  swear ! "  Pinton  called 
after  him,  and  then  went  unsteadily  homeward, 
full  of  generous  resolves  and  pianistic  ambitions. 
As  he  intermittently  undressed  he  discovered,  to 
his  rage  and  amazement,  that  both  his  purse  and 
watch  had  disappeared.  The  one  was  well  filled ; 
the  other,  gold.  Blastion's  technic  had  proved 
unimpeachable. 


277 


XVI 
AN   IRON   FAN 

EFFINGHAME  waited  for  Dr.  Am  in  the  study, 
a  small  chamber  crowded  with  the  contents 
of  the  universe  —  so  it  seemed  to  the  visitor. 
There  was  a  table  unusual  in  size,  indeed,  big 
enough  to  dissect  a  body  thereon.  It  was  lit- 
tered with  books  and  medical  publications  and 
was  not  very  attractive.  The  walls  were  cov- 
ered with  original  drawings  of  famous  Japanese 
masters,  and  over  the  fireplace  hung  a  huge  fan, 
dull  gray  in  colouring,  with  long  sandalwood 
spokes.  Not  a  noteworthy  example  of  Japanese 
art,  thought  Effmghame,  as  he  glanced  without 
marked  curiosity  at  its  neutral  tinting,  though 
he  could  not  help  wondering  why  the  cunning 
artificers  of  the  East  had  failed  to  adorn  the 
wedge-shaped  surfaces  of  this  fan  with  their 
accustomed  bold  and  exquisite  arabesques. 

He  impatiently  paced  the  floor.  His  friend 
had  told  him  to  come  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
evening.  It  was  nearly  ten.  Then  he  began 
to  finger  things.  He  fumbled  the  papers  in  the 
desk.  He  examined  the  two  Japanese  swords 
—  light  as  ivory,  keen  as  razors.  He  stared  at 
each  of  the  prints,  at  Hokusai,  Toyokimi,  Kuni- 

278 


AN  IRON  FAN 

yoshi,  Kiyonaga,  Kiosai,  Hiroshighe,  Utamaro, 
Oukoyo-Y£, —  the  doctor's  taste  was  Oriental. 
And  again  he  fell  to  scrutinizing  the  fan.  It 
was  large,  ugly,  clumsy.  What  possessed  Arn 
to  place  such  a  sprawling  affair  over  his  man- 
tel ?  Tempted  to  touch  it,  he  discovered  that 
it  was  as  silky  as  a  young  bat's  wing.  At 
last,  his  curiosity  excited,  he  lifted  it  with  some 
straining  to  the  floor.  What  puzzled  him  was 
its  weight.  He  felt  its  thin  ribs,  its  soft,  paper- 
like  material,  and  his  fingers  chilled  as  they 
closed  on  the  two  outermost  spokes.  They 
were  of  metal,  whether  steel  or  iron  he  could 
not  determine.  A  queer  fan  this,  far  too  heavy 
to  stir  the  air,  and  — 

Effinghame  held  the  fan  up  to  the  light.  He 
had  perceived  a  shadowy  figure  in  a  corner.  It 
resolved  itself  into  a  man's  head  —  bearded, 
scowling,  crowned  with  thorns  or  sunbeams.  It 
was  probably  a  Krishna.  But  how  came  such 
a  face  on  a  Japanese  fan  ?  The  type  was  Orien- 
tal, though  not  Mongolian,  rather  Semitic.  It 
vaguely  recalled  to  Effinghame  a  head  and  face 
he  had  seen  in  a  famous  painting.  But  where 
and  by  whom  ?  It  wore  a  vile  expression,  the 
eyes  mean  and  revengeful;  there  was  a  cruel 
mouth  and  a  long,  hooked,  crafty  nose.  The 
forehead  was  lofty,  even  intellectual,  and  bore 
its  thorns  —  yes,  he  was  sure  they  were  thorns 
—  like  a  conqueror.  Just  then  Dr.  Arn  entered 
and  laughed  when  he  saw  the  other  struggling 
with  the  fan. 

279 


VISIONARIES 

"  My  Samurai  fan ! "  he  exclaimed,  in  his 
accustomed  frank  tones ;  "  how  did  you  discover 
it  so  soon  ? " 

"  You've  kept  me  here  an  hour.  I  had  to  do 
something,"  answered  the  other,  sulkily. 

"There,  there,  I  apologize.  Sit  down,  old 
man.  I  had  a  very  sick  patient  to-night,  and  I 
feel  worn  out.  I'll  ring  for  champagne."  They 
talked  about  trifling  personal  matters,  when  sud- 
denly Effinghame  asked :  — 

"Why  Samurai?  I  had  supposed  this  once 
belonged  to  some  prehistoric  giant  who  could 
waft  it  as  do  ladies  their  bamboo  fans,  when 
they  brush  the  dust  from  old  hearts  —  as  the 
Spanish  poet  sang." 

"That  fan  is  interesting  enough,"  was  the 
doctor's  reply.  "  When  a  Samurai,  one  of  the 
warrior  caste  Japanese,  was  invited  to  the  house 
of  a  doubtful  friend,  he  carried  this  fan  as  a 
weapon  of  defence.  Compelled  to  leave  his 
two  swords  behind  a  screen,  he  could  close  this 
fighting  machine  and  parry  the  attack  of  his 
hospitable  enemy  until  he  reached  his  swords. 
Just  try  it  and  see  what  a  formidable  weapon  it 
would  prove."  He  took  up  the  fan,  shut  it,  and 
swung  it  over  his  head. 

"  Look  out  for  the  bottles  !  "  cried  Effinghame. 

"  Never  fear,  old  chap.  And  did  you  notice 
the  head?" 

"  That's  what  most  puzzled  me." 

"  No  wonder.  I  too  was  puzzled  —  until  I 
found  the  solution.  And  it  took  me  some  years 
280 


AN  IRON  FAN 

—  yes,  all  the  time  you  were  in  Paris  learning 
how  to  paint  and  live."  He  paused,  and  his 
face  became  gloomy. 

"Well  — well?" 

"  There  is  no  well.  It's  a  damned  bad  fan, 
that  iron  one,  and  I  don't  mind  saying  so  to 
you." 

"Superstitious — you!  Where  is  your 
Haeckel,  your  Wundt,  your  Weismann  ?  Do  you 
still  believe  in  the  infallibility  of  the  germ- 
plasm  ?  Has  the  fan  brought  you  ill-luck  ?  The 
fact  is,  Arn,  ever  since  your  return  from  China 
you've  been  a  strange  bird!"  It  was  Effing- 
hame's  turn  to  laugh. 

"  Don't  say  another  word."  The  doctor  was 
vivacious  in  a  moment  and  poured  out  wine. 
They  both  lighted  cigars.  Slowly  puffing,  Arn 
took  up  the  fan  and  spread  it  open. 

"See  here!  That  head,  as  you  must  have 
noticed,  is  not  Japanese.  It's  Jewish.  Do  you 
recall  the  head  of  Judas  painted  by  Da  Vinci  in 
his  Last  Supper?  Now  isn't  this  old  scoun- 
drel's the  exact  duplicate  —  well,  if  not  exact, 
there  is  a  very  strong  resemblance."  Effing- 
hame  looked  and  nodded. 

"  And  what  the  devil  is  it  doing  on  a  fan  of 
the  Samurai?  It's  not  caprice.  No  Japanese 
artist  ever  painted  in  that  style  or  ever  expressed 
that  type.  I  thought  the  thing  out  and  came  to 
the  conclusion  —  " 

"Yes  —  yes!  What  conclusion?"  eagerly 
interrupted  his  listener. 

281 


VISIONARIES 

"  To  the  conclusion  that  I  could  never  unravel 
such  a  knotty  question  alone."  Effinghame  was 
disappointed. 

"So  I  had  recourse  to  an  ally  —  to  the  fan 
itself,"  blandly  added  Arn,  as  he  poured  out 
more  wine. 

"The  fan?" 

"  Precisely  —  the  fan.  I  studied  it  from  tip 
to  tip,  as  our  bird-shooting  friends  say,  and  I, 
at  last,  discovered  more  than  a"  picture.  You 
know  I  am  an  Orientalist.  When  I  was  at 
Johns  Hopkins  University  I  attended  the  classes 
of  the  erudite  Blumenfeld,  and  what  you  can't 
learn  from  him  —  need  I  say  any  more  ?  One 
evening  I  held  the  fan  in  front  of  a  vivid  elec- 
tric light  and  at  once  noticed  serried  lines. 
These  I  deciphered  after  a  long  time.  Another 
surprise.  They  were  Chinese  characters  of  a 
remotely  early  date  —  Heaven  knows  how  many 
dynasties  back!  Now  what,  you  will  ask,  is 
Chinese  doing  on  a  Samurai  fighting  fan !  I 
don't  know.  I  never  shall  know.  But  I  do 
know  that  this  fan  contains  on  one  side  of  it  the 
most  extraordinary  revelation  ever  vouchsafed 
mankind,  particularly  Christian  mankind."  Ex- 
cited by  his  own  words,  Arn  arose. 

"  EfHnghame,  my  dear  fellow,  I  know  you 
have  read  Renan.  If  Renan  had  seen  the  com- 
munication on  this  iron  fan,  he  would  have 
never  written  his  life  of  the  Messiah."  His 
eyes  blazed. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ? " 
282 


AN  IRON  FAN 

"  I  mean  that  it  might  have  been  a  life  of 
Judas  Iscariot." 

"  Good  God,  man,  are  you  joking  ? "  ejacu- 
lated Effinghame. 

"  I  mean,"  sternly  pursued  Arn,  "  that  if  De 
Quincey  had  studied  this  identical  fan,  the  opium- 
eater  would  have  composed  another  gorgeous 
rhetorical  plea  for  the  man  preelected  to  betray 
his  Saviour,  the  apostle  who  spilt  the  salt."  He 
sat  down  and  breathed  heavily. 

"  Go  on  !     Go  on  !  " 

"  Shall  I  relate  the  history  upon  the  fan  ?  " 
And  without  waiting  for  an  answer  he  began  at 
the  left  of  the  fan  and  slowly  read  to  the  right :  — 

I  who  write  this  am  called  Moa  the  Bonze. 
What  I  write  of  I  witnessed  in  a  walled  city  of 
Judea.  I  travelled  there  attracted  by  the  report 
of  miraculous  happenings  brought  about  by  the 
magic  art  of  a  youthful  barbarian  called  leshua. 
The  day  I  arrived  in  the  city  they  had  sentenced 
the  wise  man  to  death  by  crucifixion.  I  was 
disappointed.  I  had  come  many  moons  and 
many  leagues  from  the  Yellow  Kingdom  to  see 
something  rare.  I  was  too  late.  The  magician, 
whom  his  disciples  called  a  god,  had  been  exe- 
cuted. I  tarried  a  few  days  in  the  city.  After 
many  questions  put  to  beggars  and  outcasts,  I 
heard  that  a  certain  woman  of  rank  had  a  por- 
trait of  leshua.  I  called  and  without  hesitation 
asked  her  to  show  me  this  picture.  She  was  an 
exalted  soul.  She  wept  bitter  tears  as  she  drew 
283 


VISIONARIES 

from  a  secret  cabinet  a  scarf  upon  which  was  im- 
printed a  bloody  image.  She  continued  to  weep 
as  I  made  a  copy  of  the  head.  I  confess  I  was 
not  impressed.  The  face  was  bearded  and  ugly. 
The  new  god  was  said  to  have  been  as  fair  as 
the  sun.  And  I  told  the  woman  this.  She  only 
wept  the  more. 

"If  he  were  a  god,"  I  asked,  "where  are 
outward  evidences  ?  "  She  became  frantic. 

"  The  real  man !  "  she  cried ;  "  this  one  died 
for  the  man  he  betrayed,"  and  again  fell  to 
lamenting.  Seeing  I  could  gain  nothing  more 
from  her,  I  left,  wondering  at  the  strange  here- 
tics I  had  encountered.  I  went  back  to  my 
country  and  after  weaving  this  tale  and  paint- 
ing the  head,  there  awaited  the  fifth  Buddha, 
the  successor  to  Siddartha,  whose  coming  has 
been  predicted. 

Arn's  voice  ceased.  There  was  silence  in 
the  chamber.  Then  Effinghame  started  up  and 
fiercely  growlecb:  — 

"  What  do  you  make  of  it,  Am  ? " 

"  Isn't  it  clear  enough  ?  There's  been  a 
frightful  error  somewhere,  one  of  incalculable 
consequences.  A  tremendous  act  of  heroism 
has  been  committed  by  a  man  whose  name  has 
been  universally  execrated  through  the  ages. 
Perhaps  he  repented  at  the  eleventh  Jhour  and 
by  some  means  impersonated  his  betrayed 
friend;  perhaps  —  " 

"  But  that  other  body  found  in  the  blasted 
284 


AN  IRON  FAN 

field  of  Aceldama ! "  demanded  the  agitated 
Effinghame.  Dr.  Am  did  not  answer. 

After  a  lugubrious  pause,  he  whispered  :  — 

"  There's  more  to  follow.  You  haven't  heard 
the  worst." 

"  What  —  more  !  I  thought  your  damnable 
old  Bonze  died  in  the  odour  of  sanctity  over 
there  in  his  Yellow  Kingdom." 

"True.  He  died.  But  before  he  died  he 
recorded  a  vision  he  had.  It  is  inscribed  on  the 
other  side  of  the  fan." 

Effingham's  features  lengthened. 

"  Still  the  same  fan." 

"The  same.  Here  is  what  it  prophesies." 
Reversing  the  clumsy  fan,  Am  again  read  :  — 

Before  I  pass  over  into  Nirvana  I  .must  re- 
late what  I  saw  in  the  country  of  the  Christians. 
It  was  not  a  dream.  It  was  too  real.  And  yet 
it  is  to  be,  for  it  has  not  yet  happened.  The 
Campagna  was  now  become  a  shallow  lake  from 
the  sea  almost  to  the  Sabine  Mountains.  What 
had  been  Rome  was  a  black  waste  spot,  full  of 
stones  and  weeds.  And  no  two  stones  stood  to- 
gether. Ah  !  our  war  with  the  white  races  had 
been  successful.  We  had  not  used  their  fight- 
ing machines,  as  did  that  nation  of  little  brown 
men,  the  Japanese.  The  Chinese  were  too  sage. 
They  allowed  the  Christians  to  exterminate  the 
Japanese ;  but  when  they  attacked  us  and  at- 
tempted to  rob  us  of  our  land,  we  merely  resorted 
td  our  old-time  weapon  —  the  Odour-Death. 

285 


VISIONARIES 

With  it  we  smothered  their  armies,  sunk  their 
navies,  swept  through  their  countries  like  the 
simoon.  The  awful  secret  of  the  Odour-Death 
is  one  that  has  been  ours  from  the  beginning  of 
time.  Known  only  to  the  College  of  Bonzes,  it 
was  never  used  except  in  extreme  peril.  Its 
smell  is  more  revolting  in  its  consequences  than 
the  Black  Plague.  It  ravaged  the  earth. 

I  sat  in  a  flat-bottomed  boat,  enjoying  the 
soft  melancholy  Italian  evening.  Not  a  human 
did  I  see ;  nor  had  I  encountered  one  on  my  slow 
voyage  from  the  Middle  Seas.  In  meditation 
I  pondered  the  ultimate  wisdom  of  Confucius 
and  smiled  at  the  folly  of  the  white  barbarians 
who  had  tried  to  show  us  a  new  god,  a  new 
religion.  At  last  they,  too,  had  succumbed  like 
the  nations  before  their  era.  The  temple  of 
Jupiter  on  the  Capitol  had  fallen,  so  had  the 
holy  temple  of  Jerusalem.  And  now  St.  Peter's. 
Their  central  religion  had  been  destroyed,  and 
yet  prophecies  of  the  second  coming  of  their 
divinity  had  not  been  accomplished.  When  the 
last  Pope  of  Rome  dies,  so  it  was  said,  then  time 
would  be  accomplished.  The  last  Pope  had  died. 
Their  basilica  with  its  mighty  dome  was  a  desert 
where  scorpions  and  snakes  abounded.  The 
fifth  Buddha  would  appear,  not  the  second 
Christos.  Suddenly  I  saw  before  me  in  a  puny 
boat  a  beautiful  beardless  youth.  He  was  at- 
tired in  some  symbolical  garments  and  upon  his 
head  a  triple  tiara.  I  could  not  believe  my 
aged  eyes.  He  sat  upright.  His  attitude  was 
286 


AN  IRON  FAN 

hieratic.  His  eyes  were  lifted  heavenwards. 
He  clasped  his  hands  and  prayed :  — 

"  O  Lord,  remove  thy  servant.  The  time  is 
at  hand  foretold  by  thy  slaughtered  saints.  I 
am  the  last  Pope  and  the  humblest  of  thy  ser- 
vants. Though  the  heathen  hath  triumphed 
upon  the  earth,  I  go  to  thy  bosom,  for  all  things 
are  now  accomplished."  And  he  tumbled  for- 
ward, dead.  The  last  Pope !  I  had  seen  him. 
Nothing  could  happen  after  that. 

And  as  I  turned  my  boat  in  the  direction  of  the 
sea  a  moaning  came  upon  the  waters.  The  sky  be- 
came as  brass.  A  roar,  like  the  rending  asunder 
of  the  firmament,  caused  my  soul  to  expand  with 
horror  and  joy.  Yes,  time  was  accomplished. 
The  last  Pope  had  uttered  the  truth.  Eternity 
was  nigh.  But  the  Buddha  would  now  prove 
to  the  multitudes  awakened  from  their  long 
sleep  that  He,  not  other  gods,  was  the  true,  the 
only  God.  In  a  flare  of  light  sounded  the  trum- 
pets of  destiny;  eternity  unrolled  before  me, 
and  on  the  vast  plain  I  saw  the  bones  of  the 
buried  dead  uniting,  as  men  and  women  from 
time's  beginnings  arose  in  an  army,  the  number 
whereof  is  unthinkable.  And  oh  !  abomination 
of  desolation,  the  White  Horse,  not  Kalki  the 
tenth  incarnation  of  Vishnu,  but  the  animal  fore- 
told in  their  Apocalypse,  came  through  the 
lightnings,  and  in  the  whirlwinds  of  flame  and 
thunder  I  saw  the  shining  face  of  Him,  the  Son 
of  Man!  Where  our  Buddha?  Alas!  the 
last  Pope  spake  truth.  I,  Moa  the  Bonze,  tell 
287 


VISIONARIES 

you  this  ere  it  be  too  late  to  repent  your  sins 
and  forswear  your  false  gods.  The  Galilean  is 
our  master.  .  .  . 

"Farceur!  Do  you  know  what  I  would  do 
with  that  accursed  fan  ?  I'd  destroy  it,  sell  it, 
get  rid  of  it  somehow.  Or  else  — "  Effing- 
hame  scrutinized  the  doctor,  whose  eyes  were 
closed  —  "  or  else  I  would  return  to  the  pious 
practices  of  my  old  religion."  No  smile  crossed 
the  face  of  his  friend  as  he  firmly  held  the 
fighting  fan,  the  iron  and  mystical  fan  of  the 
Samurai. 


288 


XVII 

THE   WOMAN   WHO    LOVED 
CHOPIN 


WHEN  Marco  Davos  left  Ischl  on  the  midday 
train,  that  picturesque,  huddled  Austrian  water- 
ing-place was  stuffy.  He  was  surprised  then 
most  pleasantly  by  the  coolness  of  Aussee, 
further  down  the  line  in  the  direction  of  Vienna. 
Ischl  is  not  a  bad  place,  but  it  lies,  as  the  natives 
say,  smothered  in  a  kettle.  He  rode  over  from 
the  station  to  the  stadt  park,  where  the  band  was 
playing.  There  he  dismounted,  for  he  was  going 
further  —  Aussee  is  not  very  interesting,  but  it 
principally  serves  as  a  good  starting-point  for 
trips  to  many  of  the  charming  lakes  with  which 
Styria  is  dotted.  After  asking  his  way,  Davos 
passed  the  swimming  baths,  and  keeping  on  the 
left  bank  of  a  tiny  stream,  he  presently  found 
himself  walking  through  an  earthly  paradise. 
Since  his  advent  in  Ischl,  where  he  drank  the 
waters  and  endeavoured  to  quiet  his  overtaxed 
nerves,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  visit  Alt- 
Aussee;  several  Viennese  friends  had  assured 
him  that  this  hamlet,  beneath  a  terrific  precipice 
289 


VISIONARIES 

and  on  the  borders  of  a  fairy-like  lake,  would 
be  well  worth  the  while. 

It  was  a  relief  to  breathe  the  thinner  moun- 
tain air,  and  the  young  artist  inhaled  it  with 
satisfaction,  his  big  hat  in  hand,  his  long 
curly  black  hair  flowing  in  the  gentle  breeze. 
He  found  himself  in  tunnels  of  verdure,  the 
sunlight  shut  off  by  the  heavy  leafage ;  then  the 
path  debouched  into  the  open  and,  skirting 
closely  the  rocky  wall,  it  widened  into  an  island 
of  green  where  a  shady  pagoda  invited.  He 
sat  down  for  a  few  minutes  and  congratulated 
himself  that  he  had  escaped  the  intimate  discom- 
forts of  the  omnibus  he  discerned  on  the  opposite 
bank,  packed  with  stout  people.  This  was  the 
third  week  of  his  vacation,  one  enforced  by  a 
nerve  specialist  in  the  Austrian  capital,  and  for 
the  first  time  Davos  felt  almost  cheerful.  Per- 
haps the  absolute  hush  of  the  country  and  the 
purity  of  the  atmosphere,  with  its  suggestion 
of  recent  rain,  —  the  skies  weep  at  least  once  a 
day  in  the  Salzkammergut  region,  —  proved  a 
welcome  foil  to  fashionable  Ischl,  with  its  crowds, 
its  stiffness,  its  court  ceremonial  —  for  the  em- 
peror enjoys  his  villegiatura  there.  And  Davos 
was  sick  and  irritable  after  a  prolonged  musical 
season.  He  had  studied  the  pianoforte  with 
Rosenthal,  and  his  success,  from  his  d£but, 
had  been  so  unequivocal  that  he  played  too  much 
in  public.  There  was  a  fiery  particle  in  his  in- 
terpretations of  Chopin,  Schumann,  and  Liszt 
that  proclaimed  the  temperament,  if  not  the  actual 
290 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  LOVED  CHOPIN 

possession,  of  genius.    Still  in  his  early  manhood 

—  he  was  only  twenty  —  the  maturity  of   his 
musical  intelligence  and  the  poetry  of  his  style 
created  havoc  in  impressionable  hearts.     With 
his  mixed  blood,  Hungarian  and  Italian,  Marco 
Davos'  performance  of  romantic  composers  was 
irresistible  ;  in  it  there  was  something  of  Pach- 
mann's  wayward  grace  and  Paderewski's  plan- 
gency,  but  with   an   added   infusion   of   gypsy 
wildness  which   evoked   for  old   concert-goers 
memories  of  Liszt  the  brilliant  rhapsodist. 

But  he  soon  overpaid  the  score  presented  by 
the  goddess  Fortune  —  his  nerves  were  sadly 
jangled.  A  horror  of  the  human  face  obsessed 
his  waking  and  sleeping  hours ;  he  dreamed 
of  colossal  countenances  with  threatening  eyes, 
a  vast  composite  of  the  audiences  he  nightly 
faced.  As  his  popularity  increased  the  wan- 
ing of  his  self-respect  told  him  that  he  must  go 
into  retreat,  anywhere  out  of  the  musical  world 

—  else  would  his  art  surfer.    It  did  suffer.     The 
nervous  diffidence,  called  stage-fright,  which  had 
never  assailed  his  supreme  self-balance,  intruded 
its  unwelcome  presence.    Marco,  several  months 
after  he  had  discovered  all   these  mischievous 
symptoms,  the  maladies  of  artistic  adolescence, 
was  not  assured  when  the  critics  hinted  of  them 

—  the  public  would  surely  follow  suit  in  a  few 
weeks.   Then  came  the  visit  to  the  learned  Vien- 
nese doctor  and  the  trip  to  Ischl.     A  few  more 
months  of  this  appalling  absorption  in  his  own 
personality,   this   morbid   marriage  of   man  to 

291 


VISIONARIES 

his  own  image,  and  he  suspected  that  his  brain 
would  be  irretrievably  injured. 

He  was  a  curious  student  of  matters  psy- 
chologic as  well  as  musical.  A  friendly  labo- 
ratory had  inducted  him  into  many  biologic 
mysteries.  Particularly  fascinating  to  him  was 
the  tactile  sense,  that  sense  of  touch  where- 
with man  acquaints  himself  with  this  earth-clot 
swimming  in  space.  Davos  contemplated  the 
tips  of  his  fingers  as  he  sat  in  the  grateful  cool, 
his  ten  voices  as  he  named  them.  With  them 
he  sang,  thundered,  and  thought  upon  the  key- 
board of  his  grand  piano-forte.  A  miracle, 
indeed,  these  slender  cushions  of  fat,  ramified 
by  a  network  of  nerves,  sinews,  and  bones  as 
exquisite  in  their  mechanism  as  the  motion  of 
the  planets.  If  hearing  is  a  miracle,  so  is 
touch ;  the  ear  is  not  a  resonator,  as  has  been 
so  long  maintained,  but  an  apparatus  which 
records  variations  of  pressure.  This  makes  it 
subservient  to  the  laws  of  sensation;  touch 
and  hearing  are  akin.  It  aroused  the  pride 
of  Davos  after  he  had  read  the  revolutionary 
theories  of  Pierre  Bounier  regarding  the  touch. 
So  subtle  could  the  art  of  touch  be  culti- 
vated, the  pianist  believed,  that  the  blind  could 
feel  colour  on  the  canvas  of  the  painter.  He 
spent  weeks  experimenting  with  a  sensitive 
manometer,  gauging  all  the  scale  of  dynamics. 
No  doubt  these  fumblings  on  the  edge  of  a  new 
science  temporarily  hurt  his  play.  With  a  dan- 
gerous joy  he  pressed  the  keys  of  his  instru- 
292 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  LOVED  CHOPIN 

ment,  endeavouring  to  achieve  more  delicate 
shadings.  He  quarrelled  with  the  piano  manu- 
facturers for  their  obstinate  adherence  to  the 
old-fashioned  clumsy  action ;  everything  had 
been  improved  but  the  keyboard  —  that  alone 
was  as  coldly  unresponsive  and  inelastic  as  a 
half-century  ago.  He  had  fugitive  dreams  of 
wires  that  would  vibrate  like  a  violin.  The 
sounding-board  of  a  pianoforte  is  too  far  from 
the  pianist,  while  the  violinist  presses  his  strings 
as  one  kisses  the  beloved.  Little  wonder  it  is 
the  musical  monarch.  A  new  pianoforte,  with 
passionately  coloured  overtones,  that  could  sob 
like  a  violoncello,  sing  like  a  violin,  and  resound 
with  the  brazen  clangours  of  the  orchestra  — 
Liszt  had  conceived  this  synthesis,  had  by  the 
sheer  force  of  his  audacious  genius  compelled 
from  his  instrument  ravishing  tones  that  were 
never  heard  before  or  —  alas  !  —  since. 

Even  the  antique  harpsichord  had  its  compen- 
sations ;  not  so  powerful  in  its  tonal  capacity, 
it  nevertheless  gave  forth  a  pleading,  human 
quality  like  the  still  small  angelic  voice.  Davos 
pondered  these  problems,  pondered  Chopin's 
celestial  touch  and  the  weaving  magic  of  his 
many-hued  poems;  Chopin  —  Keats,  Shelley, 
and  Heine  battling  within  the  walls  of  a  frail 
tender  soul. 

The  sound  of  footsteps  and  voices  aroused 
him.  He  shivered  with  disgust.  More  people  ! 
Two  men,  well  advanced  in  life,  followed  by  two 
women,  barely  attracted  his  notice,  until  he  saw 

293 


VISIONARIES 

that  the  little  creature  who  waddled  at  the  rear 
of  the  party  was  a  Japanese  in  European  clothes. 
Notwithstanding  her  western  garb,  she  resem- 
bled a  print  of  Utamaro.  Beside  her  walked  a 
tall,  grave  girl,  with  dark  hair  and  gray  eyes, 
attired  in  the  quaint  garb  of  some  early  nine- 
teenth-century epoch  —  1840  or  thereabouts. 
As  old-fashioned  as  she  looked,  a  delicate  girlish 
beauty  was  hers,  and  when  she  indifferently 
gazed  at  Davos,  straightway  he  heard  humming 
in  his  head  the  "  glance  motive  "  from  Tristan 
and  Isolde.  They  passed  on,  but  not  leaving 
him  as  he  was  before ;  a  voice  whispered  in 
the  secret  recesses  of  his  being:  "You  love! 
Follow !  Seek  her !  "  And  under  the  sudden 
impulsion  of  this  passion  he  arose  and  made  a 
few  steps  toward  the  curve  of  the  path  around 
which  the  girl  and  her  companions  had  disap- 
peared. The  absurdity  of  this  hasty  transla- 
tion into  action  of  his  desire  halted  him.  Yes, 
his  nerves  must  be  in  a  bad  way  if  a  casual 
encounter  with  a  pretty  woman  —  but  was  she 
pretty?  He  did  not  return  to  his  seat.  He 
continued  his  stroll  leisurely.  Pretty  !  Not  ex- 
actly pretty  —  distinguished !  Noble !  Lovely  ! 
Beautiful !  He  smiled.  Here  he  was  playing 
the  praises  of  the  unknown  in  double  octaves. 
He  did  not  overtake  her.  She  had  vanished  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bridge,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes he  found  himself  entering  Alt-Aussee.  It 
wore  a  bright  appearance,  with  its  various- 
coloured  villas  on  the  lake  shores,  and  its  church 
294 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  LOVED  CHOPIN 

and  inn  for  a  core.  The  garden  of  this  hotel 
he  found  to  be  larger  than  he  had  imagined ; 
it  stretched  along  the  bank  and  only  stopped 
as  if  stone  and  mortar  had  been  too  lazy  to  go 
farther. 

Again  he  hesitated.  The  garden,  the  restau- 
ration  —  full  of  people :  women  knitting,  chil- 
dren bawling,  men  reading;  and  all  sipping 
coffee  to  a  background  of  gossip.  He  remem- 
bered that  it  was  the  sacred  hour  of  Kaffee- 
klatsch, and  he  would  have  escaped  by  a  flight 
of  steps  that  led  down  to  the  beach,  but  he  was 
hailed.  A  company  of  a  half-dozen  sat  at  a 
large  table  under  the  trees,  and  the  host  was 
an  orchestral  conductor  well  known  to  Davos. 
There  was  no  alternative.  He  took  a  chair. 
He  was  introduced  as  the  celebrated  pianoforte- 
virtuoso  to  men  and  women  he  had  never  seen 
before,  and  hoped  —  so  rancorous  was  his  mood 
—  never  to  see  again.  A  red-headed  girl  from 
Brooklyn,  who  confessed  that  she  thought 
Maeterlinck  the  name  of  some  new  Parisian 
wickedness,  further  bothered  him  with  questions 
about  piano  teachers.  No,  he  didn't  give  les- 
sons !  He  never  would !  She  dropped  out  of 
the  conversation.  Finally  by  an  effort  he  swore 
that  his  head  was  splitting,  that  he  must  return 
to  Ischl.  He  broke  away.  When  he  discovered 
that  the  crowd  was  also  bound  for  the  same  place, 
he  abruptly  disappeared.  It  took  him  just  two 
hours  to  traverse  the  irregular  curves  of  the  lake 
on  the  Franz  Carl  Promenade,  and  he  ate  his 

295 


VISIONARIES 

dinner  in  peace  at  the  inn  upon  a  balcony  that 
projected  over  the  icy  waters. 

Davos  decided,  as  he  smoked  a  mild  cigarette, 
that  he  would  remain  at  Alt-Aussee  for  the  night. 
The  peace  of  the  landscape  purified  his  soul  of 
its  irritability,  though  he  wished  that  the  Dach- 
stein  would  not  dominate  so  persistently  the  sky- 
line— it  was  difficult  to  avoid  the  view  of  this 
solitary  and  egotistic  peak,  the  highest  in  Styria. 
He  was  assigned  a  comfortable  chamber,  but  the 
night  was  too  fine  for  bed.  He  did  not  feel 
sleepy,  and  he  went  along  the  road  he  had  come 
by ;  the  church  was  an  opaque  mass,  the  spire 
alone  showing  in  the  violet  twilight,  like  some 
supernatural  spar  on  a  ship  far  out  at  sea.  He 
attempted  to  conjure  to  his  tired  brain  the  fea- 
tures, the  expression,  of  the  girl.  They  would 
not  reappear ;  his  memory  was  traitorous. 

The  murmur  of  faint  music,  piano  music,  made 
his  ears  wince  —  how  he  hated  music !  But  afar 
as  were  these  tonal  silhouettes,  traced  against 
the  evening  air,  his  practised  hearing  told  him 
that  they  were  made  by  an  artist.  He  languidly 
followed  the  clue,  and  soon  he  was  at  the  gate 
of  a  villa,  almost  buried  in  the  bosk,  and  listen- 
ing with  all  his  critical  attention  to  a  thrilling 
performance  —  yes,  thrilling  was  the  word  —  of 
Chopin's  music.  What!  The  last  movement 
of  the  B  flat  minor  sonata,  the  funeral  march 
sonata,  but  no  more  like  the  interpretation  he 
had  heard  from  others — from  himself  —  than 
—  than  .  .  . 

296 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  LOVED  CHOPIN 

But,  good  heavens !  Who  was  playing !  The 
unison  passages  that  mount  and  recede  were 
iridescent  columns  of  mist  painted  by  the  moon- 
light and  swaying  rhythmically  in  the  breeze. 
Here  was  something  rare.  No  longer  conscious 
of  the  technical  side  of  the  playing,  so  spirit- 
ualized was  it,  so  crystalline  the  touch,  Davos 
forgot  his  manners  and  slipped  through  the 
gateway,  through  the  dark  garden,  toward  an 
open  window  in  which  burned  a  solitary  candle. 
The  mystery  of  this  window  'and  the  quicksilver 
dartings  of  the  music  —  gods,  what  a  touch, 
what  gossamer  delicacy !  —  set  his  heart  throb- 
bing. He  forgot  his  sick  nerves.  When  the 
trumpet  blows,  the  war-horse  lusts  for  action  — 
and  this  was  not  a  trumpet,  but  a  horn  of  elf -land. 
He  moved  as  closely  as  he  dared  to  the  window, 
and  the  music  ceased  —  naturally  enough,  the 
movement  had  concluded.  His  ears  burned 
with  the  silence.  She  came  to  the  window. 
Arrested  by  the  vision  —  the  casement  framed 
her  in  a  delicious  manner  —  he  did  not  stir. 
She  could  not  help  seeing  this  intruder,  the 
light  struck  him  full  in  the  face.  She  spoke  :  — 

"  Dear  Mr.  Davos,  won't  you  come  into  the 
house  ?  My  father  and  my  uncle  will  be  most 

happy  to  receive  you." 

****** 

She  knew  him!  Stunned  by  his  overstrung 
emotions,  he  could  only  bow  his  head. 


297 


VISIONARIES 

II 

He  received  the  welcome  of  a  king.  The 
two  men  he  had  seen  earlier  in  the  day 
advanced  ceremoniously  and  informed  him 
that  the  honour  of  his  presence  was  something 
they  had  never  hoped  for ;  that  —  as  news  flies 
swiftly  in  villages  —  they  had  heard  he  was 
at  Alt-Aussee ;  they  had  recognized  the  great 
Marco  Davos  on  the  road.  These  statements 
were  delivered  with  exaggerated  courtesy, 
though  possibly  sincere.  The  elder  of  the  pair 
was  white-whiskered,  very  tall  and  spare,  his 
expression  a  sadly  vague  one.  It  was  her 
father.  The  other  an  antique  person,  a  roly- 
poly  fellow  who  chuckled  and  quavered,  was  her 
uncle.  Davos  sat  in  a  drawing-room  containing 
a  grand  pianoforte,  a  few  chairs,  and  couches. 
The  floor  was  stained,  and  when  a  cluster  of 
lights  was  brought  by  the  uncle,  he  noticed 
that  only  Chopin  portraits  hung  on  the  walls. 
He  apologized  for  his  intrusion  —  the  music 
had  lured  him  from  the  highroad. 

"  We  are  very  musical,"  said  the  father. 

"  I  should  say  so, "reiterated  his  brother-in-law. 

"  Musical ! "  echoed  Davos.  "  Do  you  call  it  by 
such  an  everyday  phrase  ?  I  heard  the  playing 
of  a  marvellous  poet  a  moment  ago."  The  two 
men  looked  shyly  at  each  other.  She  entered. 
He  was  formally  presented. 

"Monsieur  Davos,  this  is  Constantia  Grabow- 
ska,  my  daughter.  My  name  is  Joseph 
298 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  LOVED  CHOPIN 

Grabowski;  my  late  wife's  brother,  Monsieur 
Pelletier."  Davos  was  puzzled  by  the  name, 
Constantia  Grabowska !  She  sat  before  him, 
dressed  in  black  silk  with  crinoline ;  two  dainty 
curls  hung  over  her  ears ;  her  profile,  her 
colouring,  were  slightly  Oriental,  and  in  her 
nebulous  gray  eyes  with  their  greenish  light 
there  was  eternal  youth.  Constantia !  Polish. 
And  how  she  played  Chopin  —  ah !  it  came 
to  him  before  he  had  finished  his  apologies. 

"  You  are  named  after  Chopin's  first  love," 
he  ejaculated.  "Pardon  the  liberty."  She 
answered  him  in  her  grave,  measured  contralto. 

"Constantia  Gladowska  was  my  grand- 
mother." The  playing,  the  portraits,  were  now 
explained.  A  lover  of  the  Polish  composer, 
Davos  knew  every  incident  of  his  biography. 

"  I  am  the  son  of  that  Joseph  Grabowski, 
the  Warsaw  merchant  who  married  the  soprano 
singer,  Constantia  Gladowska,  in  1832,"  said 
the  father,  smilingly.  "My  father  became 
blind." 

"Chopin's  Ideal!"  exclaimed  Marco.  He 
was  under  the  spell  of  the  girl's  beauty  and 
music.  He  almost  stared  at  her,  for  the  know- 
ledge that  she  was  a  great  artiste,  perhaps 
greater  than  himself,  rather  dampened  his  pas- 
sion. She  was  adorable  as  she  returned  with- 
out coquetry  his  ardent  gaze;  but  she  was  — 
he  had  to  admit  it  —  a  rival.  This  composite 
feeling  he  inwardly  wrestled  with  as  the  conver- 
sation placidly  proceeded.  They  only  spoke  of 
299 


VISIONARIES 

Poland,  of  Chopin.  Once  the  name  of  Emilia 
Plater,  the  Polish  Joan  of  Arc,  was  mentioned 
—  she,  too,  was  a  distant  connection.  The 
young  pianist  hinted  that  more  music  would 
be  agreeable,  but  there  was  no  response.  He 
was  quite  alone  with  Constantia,  and  they 
talked  of  Poland's  tone-poet  She  knew  much 
more  of  Chopin  than  he  did,  and  she  recited 
Mickfewicz's  patriotic  poems  with  incomparable 
verve. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  heredity  ?  "  he  cried,  as 
the  father  entered  with  the  tea.  "  Do  you 
believe  that  your  love  of  Chopin  is  inherited  ? 
Chopin  composed  that  wonderful  slow  move- 
ment of  the  F  minor  concerto  because  of  his 
love  for  your  grandmother.  How  I  wish  I 
could  have  seen  her,  heard  her." 

The  girl,  without  answering  him,  detached 
from  her  neck  a  large  brooch  and  chain. 
Davos  took  it  and  amazedly  compared  the 
portrait  with  the  living  woman. 

"You  are  Constantia  Gladowska."  She 
smiled. 

"  Her  love  of  Chopin  —  she  must  have  loved 
her  youthful  adorer  —  has  been  transmitted  to 
you.  Oh,  please  play  me  that  movement 
again,  the  one  Rubinstein  called  '  the  night 
wind  sweeping  over  the  churchyard  graves.' " 
Constantia  blushed  so  deeply  that  he  knew 
he  had  offended  her.  She  had  for  him  some- 
thing of  the  pathos  of  old  dance  music  —  its 
stately  sweetness,  its  measured  rhythms.  After 
300 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  LOVED  CHOPIN 

drinking  a  cup  of  tea  he  drifted  to  the  in- 
strument—  flies  do  not  hanker  after  honey 
as  strongly  as  do  pianists  in  the  presence  of 
an  open  keyboard.  A  tactful  silence  ensued. 
He  began  playing,  and,  as  if  exasperated  at 
the  challenge  implied  by  her  refusal,  he  played 
in  his  old  form.  Then  he  took  the  theme  of 
Chopin's  E  flat  minor  Scherzo,  and  he  juggled 
with  it,  spun  it  into  fine  fibres  of  tone,  dashed 
it  down  yawning  and  serried  harmonic  abysses. 
He  was  magnificent  as  he  put  forth  all  the 
varied  resources  of  his  art.  Constantia,  her 
cheeks  ablaze,  her  lips  parted,  interposed  a 
fan  between  her  eyes  and  the  light.  There 
was  something  dangerous  and  passionate  in 
her  regard.  In  all  the  fury  of  his  play 
he  knew  that  he  had  touched  her.  Once, 
during  a  pause,  he  heard  her  sigh.  As  he 
finished  in  a  thunderous  crash  he  saw  in  the 
doorway  the  figure  of  the  Japanese  maid  — 
an  ugly,  gnarled  idol  with  slitted  eyes.  She 
withdrew  when  he  arose  to  receive  the  unaf- 
fected homage  of  his  hosts.  He  was  curious. 
Monsieur  Pelletier,  who  looked  like  a  Brazilian 
parrot  in  beak  and  hue,  cackled :  — 

"That's  Cilli,  our  Japanese.  She  was  born 
in  Germany,  and  is  my  niece's  governess.  Quite 
musical,  too,  I  should  say  so.  Just  look  at  my 
two  Maltese  cats !  I  call  them  Tristan  and 
Isolde  because  they  make  noises  in  the  night. 
Don't  you  loathe  Wagner  ? " 

It  was  time  to  go.  Enamoured,  Davos  took 
301 


VISIONARIES 

his  leave,  promising  to  call  the  next  forenoon 
before  he  went  back  to  Ischl.  He  held  her  fin- 
gers for  a  brief  moment  and  longed  to  examine 
their  tips,  —  the  artist  still  struggled  to  subdue 
the  man,  —  but  the  pressure  he  received  was  so 
unmistakable  that  he  hurried  away,  fearing  to 
betray  his  emotion.  He  hovered  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  house,  longing  for  more  music.  He  was 
disappointed.  For  a  full  hour  he  wandered 
through  the  dusty  lanes  in  the  faded  light  of  an 
old  moon.  When  he  reached  his  chamber,  it 
was  long  past  one  o'clock;  undaunted,  his 
romantic  fervour  forced  him  to  the  window,  and 
he  watched  the  shining  lake.  He  fell  asleep 
thinking  of  Constantia.  But  he  dreamed  of 
Cilli,  the  Japanese  maid  with  the  hideous  eyes. 

Ill 

Not  only  that  morning,  but  every  morning  for 
two  weeks,  did  Marco  Davos  visit  Alt-Aussee. 
He  came  down  from  Ischl  on  the  earliest  train, 
and  some  nights  he  stopped  at  the  hotel  near  his 
new  friends.  After  a  few  visits  he  saw  little  of 
the  father  and  uncle,  and  he  was  not  sorry  — 
they  were  old  bores  with  their  archaic  anecdotes 
of  dead  pianists.  Two  maniacs  on  the  subject 
of  music,  Davos  wished  them  to  the  devil  after  he 
had  known  them  twenty-four  hours.  His  passion 
had  reached  the  acute  key.  He  could  not  eat 
or  drink  in  normal  fashion,  and  no  sooner  had 
he  left  the  girl  than  the  sky  became  sombre, 
302 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  LOVED  CHOPIN 

his  pulse  weakened,  and  he  longed  to  return  to 
her  side  to  tell  her  something  he  had  forgotten. 
He  did  this  several  times,  and  hesitated  in  his 
speech,  reddened,  and  left  her,  stumbling  over 
the  grass  like  a  lame  man.  Never  such  a  crazy 
wooer,  never  a  calmer  maiden.  She  looked  un- 
utterable sentiment,  but  spoke  it  not. 

When  he  teased  her  about  her  music,  she 
became  a  statue.  She  was  too  timid  to  play 
before  artists ;  her  only  master  had  been  her 
father.  Once  more  he  had  heard  the  piano  as 
he  returned  unexpectedly,  and  almost  caught 
her;  he  saw  her  at  the  instrument,  but  some 
instinct  must  have  warned  her  that  she  was 
being  spied  upon.  She  stopped  in  the  middle 
of  a  phrase  from  a  Mendelssohn  song,  and  even 
to  his  prejudiced  ears  her  touch  had  seemed 
commonplace.  Yet  he  loved  her  all  the  more 
despite  her  flat  refusal  to  play.  The  temptation 
to  his  excited  artistic  temperament  was  removed. 
He  played,  often,  gloriously.  His  nerves  were 
steel.  This  was  a  cure  his  doctor  had  not  fore- 
seen. What  did  it  matter,  anyhow?  —  he  was 
near  Constantia  daily,  and  the  sunshine  was 
royal.  Only  —  why  did  her  relatives  absent 
themselves  so  obstinately !  She  told  him,  with 
her  secret  smile,  that  she  had  scolded  them  for 
talking  so  much ;  but  when  he  played  they  were 
never  far  away,  she  assured  him.  Nor  was  the 
Japanese  woman,  Cilli  —  what  a  name  !  A 
nickname  given  by  Constantia  in  her  babyhood. 
Cilli  was  a  good  soul.  He  hoped  so  —  her  good- 
3°3 


VISIONARIES 

ness  was  not  apparent.  She  had  a  sneering 
expression  as  he  played.  He  never  looked  up 
from  the  keyboard  that  he  did  not  encounter 
her  ironical  gaze.  She  was  undoubtedly  inter- 
ested. Her  intensity  of  pose  proved  it ;  but 
there  was  no  sympathy  in  her  eyes.  And  she 
had  a  habit  of  suddenly  appearing  in  door  or 
window,  and  always  behind  her  mistress.  She 
ended  by  seriously  annoying  him,  though  he 
did  not  complain.  It  was  too  trivial. 

One  afternoon  he  unfolded  his  novel  views 
on  touch.  If  the  action  of  the  modern  piano- 
forte could  be  made  as  sensitive  in  its  response 
as  the  fingerboard  of  a  fiddle.  .  .  .  Constantia 
listened  with  her  habitual  gravity,  but  he  knew 
that  she  was  bored.  Then  he  shifted  to  the 
subject  of  fingers.  He  begged  to  be  allowed 
the  privilege  of  examining  hers.  At  first  she 
held  back,  burying  her  hand  in  the  old  Mechlin 
lace  flounce  of  her  sleeves.  He  coaxed.  He 
did  not  attempt  to  conceal  his  chagrin  when  he 
finally  saw  her  fingers.  They  were  pudgy, 
good-humoured,  fit  to  lift  a  knife  and  fork,  or 
to  mend  linen.  They  did  not  match  her  cameo- 
like  face,  and  above  all  they  did  not  reveal  the 
musical  soul  he  knew  her  to  possess.  For  the 
first  time  since  he  met  her  she  gave  evidence 
of  ill  humour.  She  sharply  withdrew  her  hand 
from  his,  and  as  she  did  so  a  barbaric  croon  was 
heard,  a  sort  of  triumphant  wailing,  and  Con- 
stantia, without  making  an  excuse,  hurriedly  left 
the  room.  The  singing  stopped. 

3°4 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  LOVED  CHOPIN 

"  It's  that  devil  of  a  Japanese  woman,"  he 
muttered  testily.  He  waited  for  nearly  an  hour, 
and  in  a  vile  temper  took  up  his  hat  and  stick  and 
went  away.  Decidedly  this  was  his  unlucky 
day,  he  grumbled,  as  he  reached  the  water. 
He  saw  Grabowski  and  Pelletier,  arm  in  arm, 
trudging  toward  the  villa,  but  contrived  to  evade 
them.  In  ten  minutes  he  found  himself  spying 
on  the  house  he  had  quitted.  He  skirted  a  little 
private  way  back  of  the  villa,  and  to  his  amaze- 
ment father,  uncle,  and  Constantia  came  out 
and  hailed  the  omnibus  which  travelled  hourly 
to  Aussee.  Davos  was  furious.  He  did  not  risk 
following  them,  for  he  realized  he  had  been 
treated  shabbily.  His  wrath  softened  as  he 
reflected;  perhaps  Constantia,  agitated  by  his 
rudeness,  —  had  he  been  rude  ?  —  persuaded  her 
family  to  follow  him  to  Ischl.  The  sky  cleared. 
That  was  the  solution  —  Marco  Davos  straight- 
ened himself  —  his  pride  was  no  longer  up  in 
arms.  Poor  child  —  she  was  so  easily  wounded  ! 
How  he  loved  her ! 

His  body  trembled.  He  could  not  believe  he 
was  awake.  Incredible  music  was  issuing  from 
behind  the  closed  blinds  of  the  villa.  Music! 
And  the  music  he  had  overheard  that  first  night. 
But  Constantia  had  just  gone  away  ;  he  had  seen 
her.  There  must  be  some  mistake,  some  joke. 
No,  no,  by  another  path  she  had  managed  to  get 
back  to  the  house.  Ay!  but  what  playing. 
Again  came  that  purling  rush  of  notes,  those 
unison  passages,  as  if  one  gigantic  hand  grasped 

305 


VISIONARIES 

them  —  so  perfect  was  the  tonal  accord.  He  did 
not  hesitate.  At  a  bound  he  was  in  the  corri- 
dor and  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  drawing- 
room.  .  .  . 

At  first  the  twilighted  room  blinded  him. 
Then  to  his  disgust  and  terror  he  saw  the  ape- 
like features  of  the  squat  Japanese  governess. 
She  sat  at  the  piano,  her  bilious  skin  flushed 
by  the  exertion  of  playing. 

"  You  —  you!  "  he  barely  managed  to  stammer. 
She  did  not  reply,  but  preserved  the  immobility 
of  a  carved  idol. 

"You  are  a  wonderful  artiste,"  he  blurted, 
going  to  her.  She  stolidly  answered :  — 

"  The  Japanese  have  the  finest  sense  of  touch 
in  the  world.  I  was  once  a  pupil  of  Karl  Tau- 
sig."  Involuntarily  he  bowed  his  head  to  the 
revered  name  of  the  one  man  he  had  longed  to 
hear.  Then  his  feelings  almost  strangled  him  ; 
his  master  passion  asserted  itself. 

"Your  fingers,  your  fingers — let  me  see  them," 
he  hoarsely  demanded.  With  a  malicious  grin  she 
extended  her  hands — he  groaned  enviously.  Yes, 
they  were  miracles  of  sculpture,  miracles  of  colour 
and  delicacy,  the  slender  tips  well-nigh  prehensile 
in  their  cunning  power.  And  the  fingers  of  Con- 
stantia,  of  his  love,  of  the  woman  who  loved 
Chopin  —  that  Chopin  whose  first  passion  was 
for  her  grandmother,  the  opera  singer  Constantia 
Gladowska ! 

The  knowledge  of  her  cruel  deception  crept 
into  his  consciousness.  He  was  chilled  for 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  LOVED  CHOPIN 

several  seconds.  Grief  at  his  lost  love,  im- 
placable anger  at  her  trickery,  crowded  into  his 
unhappy  brain.  But  he  only  bowed  to  Cilli, 
and  summoning  all  his  will  he  politely  said :  — 

"  It  is  quite  true  that  when  the  Japanese  choose 
to  play  the  piano,  we  Europeans  must  shut  up 
shop."  He  hurried  out  to  the  road  and  walked 
desperately.  .  .  . 

The  next  morning,  as  he  nervously  paced  the 
platform  of  the  Ischl  railway  station,  he  encoun- 
tered his  old  friend  Alfred  Briinfeld,  the  jovial 
Viennese  pianist. 

"  Hullo ! " 

"Hullo!" 

"  Not  going  back  to  Vienna  ? " 

"Yes  — I'm  tired  of  the  country." 

"  But,  man,  you  are  pale  and  tired.  Have  you 
been  studying  up  here  after  your  doctor  bade 
you  rest?"  The  concern  in  Briinfeld's  voice 
touched  Davos.  He  shook  his  head,  then  be- 
thought himself  of  something. 

"  Alfred,  you  are  acquainted  with  everybody 
in  Europe.  How  is  it  you  never  told  me  about 
that  strange  Grabowski  crowd  —  you  know,  the 
granddaughter  of  Chopin's  first  love  ?  "  Briinfeld 
looked  at  him  with  instant  curiosity. 

"  You  also  ? "  he  said.  The  young  man  blushed. 
After  that  he  could  never  forgive !  The  other 
continued :  — 

"  Granddaughter,  fiddlesticks  !  They  are  not 
Poles,  those  Grabowskis,  but  impostors.  Their 
real  name  is  —  is  —  "  Davos  started. 


VISIONARIES 

"  What,  you  have  met  them  ? " 

"  Yes,  the  stupid  father,  the  odious  uncle,  the 
fair  Constantia  —  what  a  meek  saint !  —  and 
that  diabolical  Japanese,  who  plays  the  piano 
like  a  house  on  fire."  Tears  came  to  the  eyes 
of  Marco  Davos. 

"  Did  they  —  I  mean,  did  she  take  you  in, 
too  ? " 

"  Here,  at  Ischl,  last  summer,"  was  the  grim 
reply. 


308 


XVIII 
THE   TUNE   OF   TIME 

FERVAL  returned  to  Rouen  after  a  fatiguing 
trip  down  the  Seine  as  far  as  Croisset,  the  old 
home  of  Gustave  Flaubert.  Here  he  viewed, 
not  without  a  dismal  sense  of  fame  and  its 
futility,  the  little  garden-house  in  which  the 
masterpieces  of  the  great  Frenchman  had  been 
conceived  in  joy  and  executed  in  sorrow.  He 
met  the  faithful  Colange,  one-time  attendant 
of  Flaubert,  and  from  him  learned  exacerbating 
details  of  the  novelist's  lonesome  years;  so  he 
was  in  a  mood  of  irritation  as  he  went  ashore 
near  the  Bofeldieu  Bridge  and  slowly  paced 
toward  his  hotel.  He  loved  this  Norman 
Rouen,  loved  the  battered  splendour  of  Notre- 
Dame  Cathedral,  loved  the  church  of  Saint- 
Ouen  —  that  miracle  of  the  Gothic,  with  its 
upspringing  turrets,  its  portal  as  perfect  as  a 
Bach  fugue.  And  in  the  Solferino  Garden  he 
paid  his  tribute  of  flowers  at  the  monuments  of 
Maupassant  and  Flaubert.  Ferval  was  modern 
in  his  tastes ;  he  believed  nothing  in  art  was 
worth  the  while  which  did  not  date  from  the 
nineteenth  century. 

Deplorably  bored,  he  passed  his  hotel  on  the 

309 


VISIONARIES 

Quai  and  turned  into  the  Rue  Jeanne  d'Arc, 
which  led  by  the  fagade  of  the  Palais  de  Justice. 
He  had  studied  it  carefully,  and  it  did  not,  this 
dull  afternoon  in  September,  hold  his  interest 
long ;  he  sauntered  on,  not  feeling  strong  enough 
to  light  a  cigarette.  Decidedly,  Rouen  was  be- 
come tiresome.  He  would  go  back  to  Paris  by 
the  evening  train — or  to  Dieppe,  thence  to 
London,  on  the  morning  boat.  Presently  he 
found  himself  nearing  the  Porte  de  la  Grosse 
Horloge.  Through  its  opening  poured  viva- 
cious working  girls  and  men  in  blouse  and  cap, 
smoking,  chattering,  gesticulating.  It  was  all 
very  animated,  and  the  wanderer  tried  to  enjoy 
the  picture.  Then  over  against  the  crenellated 
wall,  under  the  tablet  bearing  the  quaint  inscrip- 
tion picked  out  in  choice  Latin,  Ferval  saw  a 
tall  girl.  Her  bare  head  would  not  have  marked 
her  in  a  crowd  where  motley  prevailed ;  it  was 
her  pose  that  attracted  him,  —  above  all,  her 
mediaeval  face,  with  its  long,  drooping  nose 
which  recalled  some  graven  image  of  Jean 
Goujon.  Her  skin  was  tanned;  her  hair,  flame- 
coloured,  was  confined  by  a  classic  fillet;  her 
eyes,  Oriental  in  fulness,  were  light  blue  — 
Ferval  had  crossed  to  the  apparition  and  noted 
these  things.  She  did  not  return  his  stare,  but 
continued  to  gaze  at  the  archway  as  if  expect- 
ing some  one.  Young,  robust,  her  very  attitude 
suggested  absolute  health;  yet  her  expression 
was  so  despairing,  her  eyes  so  charged  with 
misery,  that  involuntarily  he  felt  in  his  pocket 


THE  TUNE  OF  TIME 

for  money.  And  then  he  saw  that  in  her  hand 
she  held  a  tambourine.  She  wore  a  faded  uni- 
form of  the  Salvation  Army. 

Suddenly  an  extraordinary  noise  was  heard ; 
music,  but  of  such  a  peculiar  and  excruciating 
quality  that  the  young  man  forgot  his  neighbour 
and  wondered  what  new  pain  was  in  store  for 
his  already  taut  nerves.  The  shops  emptied, 
children  stopped  their  games,  and  the  Quarter 
suspended  its  affairs  to  welcome  the  music. 
Ferval  heard  rapturous  and  mocking  remarks. 
"  Baki,  Baki,  the  human  orchestra !  "  cried  one 
gossip  to  another.  And  the  reverberating 
music  swelled,  multifarious  and  amazing  as  if 
a  military  band  from  piccolo  to  drum  were  about 
to  descend  the  highway.  A  clatter  and  bang,  a 
sweet  droning  and  shrill  scraping,  and  then  an 
old  man  proudly  limped  through  the  gateway  of 
the  Great  Clock.  This  was  the  conjurer,  this 
white-haired  fellow,  who,  with  fife,  cymbals, 
bells,  concertinas,  —  he  wore  two  strapped  under 
either  arm,  —  at  times  fiddler,  made  epileptic 
music  as  he  quivered  and  danced,  wriggled,  and 
shook  his  venerable  skull.  The  big  drum  was 
fastened  to  his  back,  upon  its  top  were  placed 
cymbals.  On  his  head  he  wore  a  pavilion  hung 
with  bells  that  pealed  when  he  twisted  or  nodded 
his  long,  yellow  neck.  He  carried  a  weather- 
worn fiddle  with  a  string  or  two  missing,  while 
a  pipe  that  might  have  been  a  clarinet  years 
before,  now  emitted  but  cackling  tones  from 
his  thin  lips,  through  which  shone  a  few  fang- 
s' 


VISIONARIES 

like  teeth.  By  some  incomprehensible  coordi- 
nation of  muscular  movements  he  contrived  to 
make  sound  simultaneously  his  curious  armoury 
of  instruments,  and  the  whistling,  screeching, 
scratching,  drumming,  wheezing,  and  tinkling 
of  metal  were  appalling.  But  it  was  rhythmic, 
and  at  intervals  the  edge  of  a  tune  could  be 
discerned,  cutting  sharply  through  the  dense 
cloud  of  vibrations,  like  the  prow  of  a  boat  cleav- 
ing the  fog.  Baki,  his  face  red  and  swollen  by 
his  exertions,  moved  to  the  spot  where  waited 
the  girl. 

"At,  Debora!"  cried  a  boy,  "here's  the  old 
man.  Pass  the  plate,  pass  the  plate ! "  To  his 
amazement,  though  he  could  give  no  reason  for 
the  feeling,  Ferval  saw  the  girl  go  from  group  to 
group,  her  tambourine  outstretched,  begging  for 
coppers.  Once  she  struck  an  insulting  youth 
across  the  face,  but  when  she  reached  Ferval 
and  met  his  inquiring  look,  she  dropped  her 
eyes  and  did  not  ask  for  alms.  A  red-headed 
Sibyl,  he  thought  discontentedly,  a  street  beg- 
gar, the  daughter  of  an  old  ruffian.  And  as 
he  walked  away  rapidly  he  remembered  her 
glance,  in  which  there  lurked  some  touch  of 
antique  pride  and  wrath. 

II 

Rouen  lay  below  him,  a  violet  haze  obscuring 
all  but  the  pinnacles  of  its  churches.     The  sink- 
ing sun  had  no   longer   power  to   pierce  this 
312 


THE  TUNE  OF  TIME 

misty  gulf,  at  the  bottom  of  which  hummed  the 
busy  city ;  but  Ferval  saw  through  rents  in  the 
twirling,  heat-laden  atmosphere  the  dim  shapes 
of  bridges  mirrored  by  the  water  beneath  him ; 
and  once  the  two  islands  apparently  swept  toward 
him,  a  blur  of  green ;  while  at  the  end  of  the 
valley,  framed  by  hills,  he  seemed  to  discern 
the  odd-looking  Transbordeur  spanning  the 
Seine. 

For  twenty-four  hours  he  had  not  ceased 
thinking  of  the  girl  with  the  tambourine,  o'f 
her  savage,  sullen  grace,  her  magnificent  poise 
and  strange  glance.  He  had  learned  at  his 
hotel  that  she  was  called  "  Debora  la  folle" 
and  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  the  still 
crazier  Baki.  Was  she  some  sort  of  a  gypsy, 
or  a  Continental  version  of  Salvation  Army 
lass  ?  No  one  knew.  Each  year,  at  the  begin- 
ning of  autumn,  the  pair  wandered  into  Rouen, 
remained  a  few  weeks,  and  disappeared.  Where  ? 
Paris,  perhaps,  or  Italy  or  —  la  bas  !  The  shoul- 
der-shrugging proved  that  Baki  and  his  daughter 
were  not  highly  regarded  by  reputable  citizens 
of  Rouen,  though  the  street  people  followed 
their  music  and  singing  as  long  as  it  lasted. 
Singing  ?  queried  Ferval ;  does  the  woman  sing  ? 

He  became  more  interested.  His  visits  to  the 
country  where  Pissarro  painted  and  Flaubert 
wrote  revealed  other  possibilities  besides  those 
purely  artistic  ones  in  which  this  amateur  of 
fine  shades  and  sensations  delighted.  He  did 
not  deny,  on  the  esplanade  where  behind  him 


VISIONARIES 

stood  Bonsecours  and  the  monument  of  Jeanne 
d'Arc,  that  souvenirs  of  the  girl  had  kept  his 
eyelids  from  closing  during  the  major  portion 
of  the  night.  To  cool  his  brain  after  the  mid- 
day breakfast  he  had  climbed  the  white,  dusty, 
and  winding  road  leading  to  the  Monumental 
Cemetery  wherein,  true  Flaubertian,  he  had 
remained  some  moments  uncovered  at  the 
tomb  of  the  master.  Now  he  rested,  and  the 
shade  of  the  trees  mellowed  the  slow  dusk  of 
a  Rouen  evening. 

A  deep  contralto  voice  boomed  in  his  ears. 
As  he  had  seen  but  a  scant  half-dozen  persons 
during  the  afternoon  on  the  heights,  Ferval 
was  startled  from  his  dreams.  He  turned. 
Sitting  on  a  bank  of  green  was  the  girl.  Her 
hands  were  clasped  and  she  spoke  carelessly  to 
her  father,  who,  unharnessed  from  his  orchestra, 
appeared  another  man.  Rapidly  Ferval  observed 
his  striking  front,  his  massive  head  with  the  long, 
white  curls,  the  head  of  an  Elijah  disillusioned 
of  his  mission.  He,  too,  was  sitting,  but  up- 
right, and  his  arm  was  raised  with  a  threatening 
gesture  as  if  in  his  desolating  anger  he  were 
about  to  pronounce  a  malediction  upon  the  van- 
ishing twilighted  town.  Ferval  moved  immedi- 
ately, as  he  did  not  care  to  be  caught  spying 
upon  his  queer  neighbours.  He  was  halted  by 
their  speech.  It  was  English.  His  surprise 
was  so  unaffected  that  he  turned  back  and 
went  up  to  the  two  and  bade  them  good-day. 
At  once  he  saw  that  the  girl  recognized  him; 
3H 


THE  TUNE  OF  TIME 

the  father  dropped  his  air  of  grandeur  and  put 
on  the  beggar's  mask.  What  an  actor !  thought 
Ferval,  at  the  transformation.  "Would  the 
good  gentleman  please  —  ?" 

The  girl  plucked  at  her  father's  arm  implor- 
ingly. With  her  grave,  cold  expression  she 
answered  the  other's  salutation  and  fixed  him 
with  her  wonderful  eyes  so  inquiringly  that 
Ferval  began  a  hasty  explanation.  "English 
was  rarely  spoken  here  .  .  .  and  then  the 
pleasure  of  the  music ! "  The  old  man  burst 
into  scornful  laughter. 

"  The  music  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  The  music !  " 
echoed  his  daughter.  Ferval  wished  himself 
down  in  Rouen.  But  he  held  his  position. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  "your  music.  It  in- 
terested me.  And  now  I  find  you  speaking  my 
own  tongue.  I  must  confess  that  I  am  curious, 
that  my  curiosity  has  warrant."  Thus  was  he 
talking  to  beggars  as  if  they  were  his  social 
equals.  Unconsciously  the  tone  he  adopted 
had  been  forced  upon  him  by  the  bearing  of 
his  companions,  above  all  by  their  accent,  that 
of  cultivated  folk-  Who  and  what  were  they  ? 
The  musician  no  longer  smiled. 

"  You  are  a  music-lover,  monsieur  ? "  he  asked 
in  a  marked  French  patois. 

"  I  love  music,  and  I  am  extremely  engaged 
by  your  remarkable  combination  of  instru- 
ments," answered  Ferval.  Baki  regarded  his 
wretched  orchestra  on  the  grass,  then  spoke 
to  his  daughter. 

315 


VISIONARIES 

"  Debora,"  he  said  in  English,  and  his  listener 
wondered  if  it  were  Celtic  or  Scotch  in  its  un- 
usual intonations,  "  Debora,  you  must  sing  some- 
thing for  the  gentleman.  He  loves  our  art,"  — 
there  was  indescribable  pathos  in  this  phrase, 
—  "  so  sing  something  from  Purcell,  Brahms, 
or  Richard  Strauss." 

These  words  were  like  the  sting  of  hail ;  they 
seemed  to  drop  from  the  sky,  so  out  of  key 
were  they  with  the  speaker's  ragged  clothes 
and  the  outlandish  garb  of  his  daughter.  Pur- 
cell  !  Brahms !  Strauss !  What  could  these 
three  composers  mean  to  such  outcasts  ?  Be- 
lieving that  he  was  the  victim  of  a  mystification, 
Ferval  waited,  his  pulses  beating  as  if  he  had 
been  running  too  hard.  The  girl  slowly  moved 
her  glorious  eyes  in  his  direction ;  light  as  they 
were  in  hue,  their  heavy,  dark  lashes  gave  them  a 
fantastic  expression  —  bright  flame  seen  through 
the  shadow  of  smoke.  He  felt  his  own  dilating 
as  she  opened  her  throat  and  poured  out  a  broad, 
sonorous  stream  of  sound  that  resolved  into  Von 
ewiger  Liebe  by  Brahms.  He  had  always  loved 
deep-voiced  women.  Had  he  not  read  in  the  Tal- 
mud that  Lilith,  Adam's  first  wife,  was  low  of 
voice  ?  And  this  beggar-maid  ?  Maybe  a  mas- 
querading singer  with  a  crazy  father  !  What  else 
could  mean  such  art  wasted  on  the  roads,  thrown 
in  the  faces  of  a  rabble !  Ferval  kindled  with 
emotion.  Here  was  romance.  Brahms  and  his 
dark  song  under  the  bowl  of  the  troubled  blue 
sky  strongly  affected  him.  He  took  the  lean, 
316 


THE  TUNE  OF  TIME 

brown  hand  of  the  singer  and  kissed  it  fervently. 
She  drew  back  nervously,  but  her  father  struck 
her  on  the  shoulder  chidingly. 

"A  trifle  too  dreary,"  he  rumbled  in  his  heavy 
bass.  "  Now,  Purcell  for  the  gentleman,  and 
may  he  open  his  heart  and  his  purse  for  the 
poor." 

"  Father,"  she  cried  warningly,  "  we  are  not 
beggars,  now!"  She  turned  supplicatingly  to 
the  young  man  and  made  a  gesture  of  dismissal. 
He  gently  shook  his  hesd  and  pretended  that 
he  was  about  to  leave,  though  he  felt  that  his 
feet  were  rooted  in  the  earth,  his  power  of  willing 
gone. 

"  Ay,  ay,  my  girl ! "  continued  the  musician, 
"  you  can  sing  as  well  as  the  best  of  them,  only 
you  love  your  sinful  old  father  so  much  that  you 
have  laid  aside  your  ambitions,  to  follow  him  in 
his  pilgrimage  of  expiation  about  this  wicked 
globe.  Ah,  sir,  if  you  but  knew  —  I  will  speak, 
Debora,  for  he  is  a  gentleman  and  a  lover  of 
music  !  If  you  but  knew  our  history,  you  would 
not  be  surprised  at  us.  Have  ye  ever  been  in 
Wales?" 

Ferval  stumbled  in  his  answer.  It  was  over- 
looked ;  the  old  man  continued  :  "  If  ye  have,  ye 
must  have  heard  of  the  sin-eaters.  I  am  one  of 
them,  I  am  an  eater  of  sin  —  " 

Again  the  girl  exclaimed,  this  time  piteously, 
"  Oh,  father,  remember  your  vow !  " 

"  Poor  lass !  Yes,  I  was  a  doer  of  evil,  and  I 
became  an  eater  of  sin.  Some  day  my  sins  will 


VISIONARIES 

be  forgiven  — this  is  my  penance."  He  pointed 
to  his  instruments.  Ferval  kept  silence.  He 
feared  a  word  would  blow  away  the  cobweb 
foundations  of  the  narrative.  The  girl  had 
turned  and  was  watching  a  young  tilted  moon 
which  with  a  single  star  made  silvery  dents  low 
in  the  western  horizon. 

"  I  am  an  eater  of  sin.  We  still  have  a  few 
such  in  Wales.  They  put  a  piece  of  bread  and 
cheese  on  the  breast  of  a  dead  man  and  when  the 
sin-eater  eats  it,  the  sins  of  the  dead  are  passed 
into  the  bread  and  cheese  and  the  soul  of  the 
dead  is  shrived  of  them.  Ay,  ay,  but  it's  a 
grave  duty,  my  friend,  to  take  upon  your  own 
soul  the  crime  of  another.  If  you  are  free 
from  sin  yourself,  you  may  walk  through  life  a 
brave  creature ;  but  ...  I  took  his  sins,  sins, 
the  sins  of  the  wickedest  composer  of  our  cen- 
tury, God  rest  his  soul.  And  for  the  wicked 
things  he  put  into  his  symphonies  I  must  march 
through  life  playing  on  this  terrible  collection 
of  instruments  the  Tune  of  Time  — "  His 
daughter  faced  him. 

"  Father,  we  must  go ;  you  are  only  keeping 
the  gentleman."  Again  she  signalled  Ferval, 
but  he  disregarded  her  warning.  He  would  not 
stir.  The  story  and  the  man  who  told  it,  a 
prophet  shorn  of  his  heaven-storming  powers, 
fascinated  him. 

"I  took  his  sins  to  myself  and  they  were 
awful.  Once  every  night  I  play  the  Tune  of 
Time  in  which  the  wickedness  of  the  dead  man 

318 


THE  TUNE  OF  TIME 

is  spread  out  like  dry  rot  in  a  green  field.  This 
man  kept  his  genius  so  long  stagnant  that  it  de- 
cayed on  his  hands,  and  then  into  his  pestilential 
music  he  poured  his  poison,  and  would  have 
made  the  world  sick.  Oh,  for  delivery  from 
the  crushing  transgressions  of  another!  His 
name  ?  Ah,  but  that  is  my  secret !  I  ate  his 
sin,  and  truth,  my  son,  is  stranger  than  theology ! 
Listen  ! " 

Before  his  daughter  could  check  him  he  had 
hastily  donned  his  armament  of  instruments  and, 
tramping  slowly  the  broad,  smooth  path,  began 
playing.  Ferval,  much  disappointed,  was  about 
to  disappear,  for  he  remembered  the  racking 
noises  of  the  previous  day.  But  this  music,  this 
Tune  of  Time !  .  .  . 

Ill 

It  was  like  the  flare  of  lightning  which  illu- 
minates strange  regions  beyond  the  borders  of 
the  soul.  Ferval  no  longer  heard,  he  felt; 
he  felt  no  more,  he  saw.  The  white  veil  was 
torn  asunder,  and  it  showed  him  a  melodious 
thunder-pool  wherein  tapering  tiny  bodies  swam, 
whose  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  Debora.  They 
split  and  coalesced  into  other  creatures,  and 
to  the  drummings  of  spheric  harmonies  resolved 
themselves  scaly  and  monstrous.  Never  did 
they  cease  changing.  As  the  music  buzzed  he 
saw  the  great  ladder  of  life,  the  lowermost  rungs 
resting  in  lakes  of  melted  amber,  the  top  threat- 


VISIONARIES 

ening  the  remotest  rims  of  the  universe.  And 
still  the  Tune  of  Time  whirred  on,  as  facet  after 
facet  of  the  Infinite  wheeled  toward  creation. 
Numberless  legions  of  crumpled  nightmare 
shapes  modulated  into  new,  familiar  forms. 
Ferval  saw  plasmic  dew  become  anthropoidal 
apes,  fiercely  roaming  primeval  forests  in  search 
of  prey.  The  music  mounted  ever  upward,  for 
the  Tune  of  Time  is  the  Tune  of  Love  —  love 
and  its  inseparable  shadow,  hate,  fashion  the 
firmament.  The  solid,  circular  earth  shivered 
like  a  mighty  harp  under  this  lyric  burden  of 
love.  The  very  stars  sported  in  their  orbits; 
and  from  the  fulgurating  ovens  of  the  Milky 
Way  there  shot  forth  streams  of  audible  light 
that  touched  the  heart-strings  of  the  hairy,  erect 
primates  and  set  them  chanting ;  thus  were  the 
souls  born  which  crowned  them  men.  This  space- 
bridging  music  ranged  from  sun  to  sun,  and  its 
supernatural  symphony  had  no  beginning  and 
never  shall  end. 

But  the  magician  or  devil  who  revealed  this 
phantasmagoria  of  the  Cosmos  —  how  had  he 
wrested  from  the  Inane  the  Tune  of  Time  that 
in  a  sequence  of  chromatic  chords  pictured  the 
processes  of  the  eternal  energy  ?  Was  this  his 
sin,  the  true  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost  ?  How 
had  he  blundered  upon  the  secret  of  the  rhyth- 
mic engine  which  spun  souls  through  the  ages  ? 
No  man  could  live  after  this  terrific  peep  at  the 
Ancient  of  Days.  Debora's  eyes  peered  into 
Ferval's,  filled  with  the  music  that  enmeshes. 
320 


THE  TUNE   OF  TIME 

And  now  sounded  the  apocalyptic  trumpets  even 
unto  the  glittering  edges  of  eternity.  .  .  . 

Amid  this  vertiginous  tempest  of  tones  Deb- 
ora  danced  the  Dance  of  Space.  She  revolved 
in  lenten  movement  to  the  lilt  of  the  music,  her 
eyes  staring  and  full  of  broken  lights.  As  her 
gaze  collide'd  with  her  companion's  he  saw  a 
disk  of  many-coloured  fire;  and  then  her  lan- 
guorous gestures  were  transformed  into  shivering 
intensities.  She  danced  like  the  wine-steeped 
Noah ;  she  danced  as  danced  David  before  the 
Ark  of  the  Covenant.  And  she  was  Herodias 
pirouetting  for  the  price  of  John's  head,  and  her 
brow  was  wreathed  with  serpents.  Followed 
the  convulsive  curvings  of  the  Nautch  and  the 
opaque  splendours  of  stately  Moorish  slaves. 
Debora  threw  her  watcher  into  a  frenzy  of  fear. 
He  crouched  under  a  sky  that  roofed  him  in 
with  its  menacing  blackness ;  the  orbs  of  the 
girl  were  shot  with  crescent  lightnings.  Alien 
in  his  desolation,  he  wondered  if  her  solemn 
leaps,  as  the  music  dashed  with  frantic  speed 
upon  his  ear-drums,  signified  the  incarnation  of 
Devi,  dread  slayer  of  men !  The  primal  charmers 
affrighted  his  vision :  Lilith,  Ourania,  Astarte\ 
Ashtaroth,  Belkis,  Ishtar,  Mylitta,  Cotytto,  and 
many  immemorial  figures  from  before  the  Flood 
streamed  by  and  melted  into  the  woven  paces 
of  Debora  —  this  new  Jephtha's  daughter  danc- 
ing to  her  doom  as  her  father  fingered  the 
Tune  of  Time.  In  the  whirling  patterns  of  her 
dance,  Ferval  discerned,  though  dimly,  the  Veil 
321 


VISIONARIES 

of  Maya,  the  veil  of  illusion  called  Space,  on  the 
thither  side  of  which  are  embroidered  the  fuga- 
cious symbols  of  Time.  ... 

...  As  the  delirious  music  faltered  and 
fainted,  he  watched  the  tragic  eyes  of  Debora 
yellowing  cat-like.  His  senses  and  imagination 
had  been  hypnotized  by  all  this  fracas  and  by 
the  beauty  of  the  girl.  With  such  a  mate  and 
such  formidable  music,  he  could  conquer  the 
earth  !  His  brain  was  afire  with  the  sweetness 
of  the  odour  that  enveloped  them,  an  odour  as 
penetrating  as  the  music  of  the  nocturnal  Chopin. 

"  Debora,"  he  whispered,  "  you  must  never  go 
away  from  me."  She  hung  her  head.  The  old 
man  was  not  to  be  seen ;  the  darkness  had  swal- 
lowed him.  Ferval  quietly  passed  his  arm  about 
the  waist  of  the  silent  woman  and  slowly  they 
walked  in  the  tender  night.  She  was  the  first 
to  speak :  — 

"You  did  not  hear  a  madman's  story,"  she 
asserted  in  her  clear,  candid  voice,  which  had 
for  him  the  hue  of  a  cleft  pomegranate.  "  It  is 
the  history  of  my  father's  soul.  It  is  his  own 
sin  he  expiates." 

"  But  you,  you ! "  Ferval  cried  unsteadily. 
"  Why  must  your  life  be  sacrificed  to  gratify  the 
bizarre  egotism  of  such  a  —  "  He  cut  short  the 
phrase,  fearful  of  wounding  her.  He  felt  her 
body  tremble  and  her  arm  contract.  They 
reached  the  marble  staircase  of  the  Jeanne 
d'Arc  memorial.  She  stopped  him  and  burst 
forth :  — 

322 


THE  TUNE  OF  TIME 

"  Would  you  be  willing  to  share  his  burden  ? 
Would  you  take  upon  your  shoulders  his  sin  ? 
He  may  have  committed  the  one  unpardonable 
sin,  for  he  discovered  the  true  philosopher's 
stone,  that  can  transmute  metals,  make  moun- 
tains nod,  the  stars  to  stop,  and  command  the 
throne  of  Jehovah  —  oh,  what  blasphemy  has 
been  his  in  his  daring  music !  If  he  could  per- 
suade one  other  soul  besides  mine  to  help  him, 
he  might  be  released  from  his  woe.  Will  you  be 
that  other?" 

She  put  this  question  as  if  she  were  proposing 
a  commonplace  human  undertaking.  Ferval  in 
his  confusion  fancied  that  she  was  provoking 
him  to  a  declaration.  To  grasp  his  receding 
reason  he  fatuously  exclaimed :  — 

"  Is  this  a  Salvation  Army  fantasy  ? " 

With  that  she  called  out,  in  harsh  resentment: 

"  Not  salvation  for  you  !  " 

She  then  thrust  him  from  her  so  violently  that 
he  tumbled  backward  down  the  steps  to  the  very 
bottom,  where,  unnerved  by  the  ferocity  of  the 
attack  and  his  head  bruised  by  the  fall,  he  felt 
his  consciousness  escape  like  gas  from  a  punc- 
tured balloon.  When  found  the  next  morning, 
he  was  barely  covered  by  the  old  sin-eater's  rags, 
while  near  by  was  scattered  the  entire  orchestra 
of  that  eloquent  wizard.  Shudderingly  he  real- 
ized that  it  had  been  no  dream ;  shudderingly 
he  wondered  if  upon  his  soul  had  been  shifted 
the  unknown  crime  of  the  fanatic  !  The  witch- 
ing, enigmatic  Debora  haunted  his  memory ; 

323 


VISIONARIES 

and  with  dismay  he  recalled  the  blistering  vision 
evoked  by  the  music,  through  which  she  had 
glided  like  some  tremulous  Lamia.  Decidedly 
his  imagination  had  carried  him  far.  He  cursed 
his  easy  credulity,  he  reviled  his  love  of  the 
exotic.  .  .  . 

Ferval  made  inquiry  of  the  authorities,  but 
received  little  comfort.  Salvation  Army  people 
they  were  not,  this  father  and  daughter ;  the  tam- 
bourine, assumed  garb,  and  prophet's  beard  had 
deceived  him.  Impostors !  But  of  what  incred- 
ible caliber,  of  what  illusion-creating  power !  For 
years  he  could  not  see  a  Salvation  Army  girl 
without  'a  sense  of  cerebral  exaltation.  If  he 
could  have  met  Debora  again,  he  would  have 
forgiven  her  sibylline  deceptions,  her  father's 
chicanery.  And  how  did  they  spin  their  web  ? 
Ferval,  student  of  the  occult,  greedy  of  meta- 
physical problems,  at  first  set  it  down  to  Indian 
Yogi  magic.  But  the  machinery  —  the  hide- 
ously discordant  human  orchestra,  the  cory- 
bantic  dancing!  No,  he  rejected  the  theory. 
Music  is  sometimes  hypnotic,  but  not  such 
music;  dancing  is  the  most  alluring  of  the 
spatial  arts,  and  Debora's  miming  was  a  de- 
light to  the  eye ;  but  could  it  have  so  obscured 
his  judgments  as  to  paint  upon  the  canvas  of 
his  fancy  those  prodigious  frescoes  of  time  and 
space  ? 

In  the  iron  solitude  of  his  soul  he  tortured 
himself  with  these  questions.  His  stupor 
lasted  for  days  —  was  it  the  abrupt  fall  or  was 
324 


THE  TUNE  OF  TIME 

it  the  result  of  his  absinthe-like  dreams?  He 
was  haunted  by  an  odour  that  assailed  his  brain 
like  one  tune  persistently  played.  The  odour ! 
Whence  did  it  come  with  its  sickly  sweetness  ? 
Perhaps  therein  lay  the  secret  of  his  halluci- 
nating visions.  Perhaps  a  drug  had  perverted 
his  brain.  But  within  the  week  the  dangerous 
perfume  had  become  dissipated,  and  with  it 
vanished  all  hope  of  solving  the  riddle.  Oh, 
to  sense  once  more  the  enchantments  of  its 
fragrance,  once  more  revel  in  the  sublimated 
intoxication  of  mighty  forces  weaving  at  the 
loom  of  life!  By  the  cadences  of  what  in- 
fernal art  had  he  been  vouchsafed  a  glimpse  of 
the  profiles  of  the  gods?  Henceforth  Ferval 
became  a  lover  of  shadows. 


3*5 


XIX 
NADA 

THE  tenderness  of  the  growing  night  dis- 
quieted the  dying  woman. 

"  Aline  ! "  she  called.  But  it  was  only  the 
name  that  reverberated  within  the  walls  of  her 
brain,  harrowed  by  fever.  A  soft  air  rustled  the 
drawn  curtains  of  lawn ;  and  on  the  dressing 
table  the  two  little  lamps  fluttered  in  syncopated 
sympathy.  One  picture  the  room  held.  It  was 
after  a  painting  by  Goya,  and  depicted  a  sneer- 
ing skeleton  scrawling  on  his  dusty  tomb,  with 
a  bony  fore-finger,  the  sinister  word,  Nada  — 
nothing!  The  perturbation  of  the  woman  in- 
creased, though  physical  power  seemed  denied 
her.  "  Aline,  my  child  !  "  This  time  a  cluck- 
ing sound  issued  from  her  throat. 

The  girl  went  to  the  bedside  and  gently 
fanned.  Her  aunt  wagged  her  head  negatively. 
"  No,  no  !  "  she  stuttered.  Aline  stopped,  and 
kneeling,  took  the  sick  hands  in  her  own.  Their 
eyes  met  and  Aline,  guided  by  the  glance,  looked 
over  at  the  picture  with  its  sardonic  motto. 

"  Shall  I  take  it  away,  Aunt  Mary  ? "  The 
elder  woman  closed  her  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out 
the  ghoulish  mockery.  Then  Aline  saw  the 
tabouret  that  stood  between  the  windows  —  it 


NADA 

was  burdened  with  magnolias  in  a  deep  white 
bowl. 

"  Do  you  wish  them  nearer  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  murmured  her  aunt.  Her  eyes 
brightened.  She  pushed  her  chin  forward,  and 
the  young  girl  removed  the  flowers,  knowing 
that  their  odour  had  become  oppressive.  She 
was  not  absent  more  than  a  few  seconds.  As 
she  returned  the  maid  touched  her  arm. 

"The  gentlemen  are  waiting  below,  miss. 
They  won't  leave  until  they  see  you." 

"  How  can  I  go  now  ?  Send  them  away,  send 
them  away !  " 

"  Yes,  miss ;  but  I  told  them  what  you  said 
this  afternoon  about  the  danger  of  Holiest 
Mother  —  " 

"  Hush !  she  is  calling."  Aline  slipped  into 
the  room  on  hurried  feet,  her  eyes  dilated,  her 
hair  in  anxious  disorder.  But  the  invalid  made 
no  signal.  She  lay  with  closed  eyelids,  the 
contraction  of  her  nostrils  a  faint  proclamation 
of  life.  Again  the  niece  took  her  place  at 
the  headboard,  and  with  folded  fingers  watched 
the  whispering  indications  of  speedy  flight. 
The  maid  soon  beckoned  her  from  a  narrowed 
door.  Aline  joined  her. 

"  They  say  that  if  you  don't  go  down,  they 
will  come  up." 

"  Who  says  ? "  was  the  stern  query. 

"  The  Second  Reader  and  the  Secretary.     I 
think  you  had  better  see  them ;  they  both  look 
worried.     Really  I  do,  Miss  Allie." 
327 


VISIONARIES 

"  Very  well,  Ellen  ;  but  you  must  stay  here, 
and  if  Holiest  Mother  makes  the  slightest  move, 
touch  the  bell.  I'll  not  be  gone  five  minutes." 

Without  arranging  her  hair  or  dress,  Aline 
opened  the  folding  doors  of  the  drawing-room. 
Only  the  centre  lamp  was  lighted,  but  she  rec- 
ognized the  two  men.  They  were  sitting  to- 
gether, and  arose  as  she  entered.  The  burly 
Second  Reader  wore  a  dismayed  countenance. 
His  cheeks  were  flabby,  his  eyes  red.  The 
other  was  a  timid  little  man  who  never  had  any- 
thing to  say. 

"  How  is  Holiest  Mother? "  asked  the  Reader. 

-Dying." 

"  Oh,  Sister  Aline  !  Why  such  a  blunt  way 
of  putting  it?  She  may  be  exchanging  her 
earthly  garb  for  a  celestial  one  —  but  die  !  We 
do  not  acknowledge  death  in  the  Church  of  the 
New  Faith."  He  paused  and  blandly  stroked 
his  huge  left  hand,  covered  with  red  down. 

"  Holiest  Mother,  my  aunt,  has  not  an  hour 
to  live,"  was  the  cool  response  of  the  girl.  "  If 
you  have  no  further  question,  I  must  ask  you  to 
excuse  me ;  I  am  needed  above."  She  stepped 
to  the  door. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  sister  !  Not  so  fast.  The 
situation  is  serious.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of 
the  faithful  depend  on  our  report  of  this  —  of 
this  sad  event.  We  may  tell  them  that  the 
female  pope  of  our  great  religion  "  —  he  bent 
his  big  neck  reverently  —  "was  wafted  to  her 
heavenly  abode  by  the  angels.  But  there  are 

328 


NADA 

the  officers  of  the  law,  the  undertaker,  the  ceme- 
tery people,  to  be  considered.  Shall  we  acknow- 
ledge that  our  founder  has  died  like  any  other 
human  —  in  bed,  of  a  fever  ?  And  who  is  to  be 
her  successor  ?  Has  she  left  a  will  ? " 

"  Poor  Aunt  Mary !  "  muttered  the  girl. 

"  It  must  be  a  woman,  will  or  no  will,"  con- 
tinued the  Second  Reader,  in  the  tone  of  a  con- 
queror making  terms  with  a  stricken  foe.  "  Now 
Aline,  sister,  you  are  the  nearest  of  kin.  You 
are  a  fervent  healer.  You  are  the  Woman." 

"  How  can  you  stand  there  heartlessly  plot- 
ting such  things  and  a  dying  woman  in  the 
house  ?  "  Aline's  voice  was  metallic  with  pas- 
sion. "  You  care  only  for  the  money  and  power 
in  our  church.  I  refuse  to  join  with  you  in  any 
such  scheme.  Aunt  Mary  will  die.  She  will 
name  her  successor.  Then  it  will  be  time  to 
act.  Have  you  forgotten  her  last  words  to  the 
faithful  ? "  She  pointed  to  a  marble  tablet  above 
the  fireplace,  which  bore  this  astounding  phrase  : 
"  My  first  and  forever  message  is  one  and  eter- 
nal." Nothing  more,  —  but  the  men  cowered 
before  the  sublime  wisdom  uttered  by  a  frail 
woman,  wisdom  that  had  started  the  emotional 
machinery  of  two  continents. 

"  But,  great  God  !  Miss  Aline,  you  mustn't  go 
off  and  leave  us  in  this  fix."  Drops  of  water 
stood  on  the  forehead  of  the  Second  Reader. 
His  hands  dropped  to  his  side  with  a  gesture  of 
despair.  His  companion  kept  to  the  corner,  a 
scared  being. 

329 


VISIONARIES 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  somebody  has 
to  take  the  throne  seat  after  —  after  your  Aunt 
Mary  dies  —  I  mean,  after  Holiest  Mother  is 
translated  to  eternity.  Ask  her,  beg  her,  for 
some  advice.  We  can't  let  the  great  undertaking 
go  to  pieces  —  " 

"You  have  little  faith,  brother,"  replied 
Aline.  "  If  that  message  means  anything,  then 
the  New  Faith  will  take  care  of  itself  —  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  was  the  testy  interrup- 
tion ;  "  but  the  world  is  not  so  easily  led  in  mat- 
ters of  religion.  The  message,  as  you  say,  is 
divine;  but  it  may  sound  like  meaningless 
twaddle  to  the  world  at  large.  If  we  are  to 
heal  mankind  and  dispel  the  heresy  of  disease 
and  death,  why  can't  Holiest  Mother  save  her- 
self ?  Mind  you,  I  am  looking  at  this  thing  with 
the  eyes  of  the  sceptics  —  " 

"You  are  an  unbeliever,  a  materialist,  your- 
self," was  the  bold  retort.  "  Do  as  you  please, 
but  you  can't  drag  me  into  your  money  calcula- 
tions." The  swift  slam  of  the  door  left  them  to 
their  fears. 

Her  aunt,  sitting  as  upright  as  a  candle,  was 
conducting  an  invisible  orchestra  when  Aline 
returned.  The  frightened  maid  tried  to  hold  the 
lean,  spasmodic  arms  as  they  traced  in  the  air 
the  pompous  rhythm  of  a  march  that  moved 
on  silent  funereal  pinions  through  the  chamber. 
The  woman  stared  threateningly  at  the  picture 
on  the  wall,  the  picture  of  the  skeleton  which  had 
come  from  nothingness  to  reveal  nothingness  to 

330 


NADA 

the  living.  The  now  distraught  girl,  her  nerves 
crisped  by  her  doubts,  threw  herself  upon  the 
bed,  her  fears  sorely  knocking  at  her  heart. 

"Aunt,  Aunt  Mary  —  Holiest  Mother,  in 
Christ's  name,  in  the  name  of  the  New  Faith, 
tell  me  before  you  go  —  tell  me  what  is  to  be- 
come of  our  holy  church  after  you  die  —  after 
you  pass  over  to  the  great  white  light.  Is  it 
all  real  ?  Or  is  it  only  a  dream,  your  beautiful 
dream ?  —  What  is  the  secret  truth?  Or  —  or — 
is  there  no  secret— no  —  "  her  voice  was  cracked 
by  sobs.  The  stately,  soundless  music  was  waved 
on  by  her  aunt.  Then  Holiest  Mother  fell  back 
on  her  pillow,  and  with  a  last  long  glance  at  the 
picture,  she  pointed,  with  smiling  irony  at  the 
picture. 

Nat/a,  Nada  .  .  . 

The  night  died  away  in  tender  complicity 
with  the  two  little  lamps  on  the  dressing  table, 
and  the  sweet,  thick  perfume  of  magnolias  modu- 
lated into  acrid  decay  as  day  dawned.  Below, 
the  two  men  anxiously  awaited  the  message  from 
the  dead.  And  they  saw  again  upon  the  marble 
tablet  above  the  fireplace  her  cryptic  wisdom  :  — 

"  My  first  and  forever  message  is  one  and 
eternal." 


331 


XX 

PAN 

For  the  Great  God  Pan  is  alive  again. 

—  DEAN  MANSEL. 


THE  handsome  Hungarian  kept  his  brilliant 
glance  fixed  upon  Lora  Crowne ;  she  sat  with 
her  Aunt  Lucas  and  Mr.  Steyle  at  a  table 
facing  the  orchestra.  His  eyes  were  not  so 
large  as  black ;  the  intensity  of  their  gaze  fur- 
ther bewildered  the  young  woman,  whose  ap- 
pearance that  evening  at  the  famous  caf£  on 
the  East  Side  was  her  initial  one.  The  heat, 
the  bristling  lights,  the  terrific  appealing  clamour 
of  the  gypsy  band,  set  murmuring  the  nerves  of 
this  impressionable  girl.  And  the  agility  of 
the  cymbalom  player,  his  great  height,  clear 
skin,  and  piercing  eyes,  quite  enthralled  her. 

"It  is  the  gypsy  dulcimer,  Lora ;  I  read  all 
about  it  in  Liszt's  book  on  gypsy  music,"  said 
Aunt  Lucas,  in  an  airy  soprano. 

Mr.  Steyle  was  impressed.  Lora  paid  no  at- 
tention, but  continued  to  gaze  curiously  at  the 
antics  of  the  player,  who  hammered  from  his 
instrument  of  wire  shivering,  percussive  music. 
With  flexible  wrists  he  swung  the  felt-covered 
332 


PAN 

mallets  that  brought  up  such  resounding  tones ; 
at  times  his  long,  apelike  arms  would  reach  far 
asunder  and,  rolling  his  eyes,  he  touched  the 
extremes  of  his  cymbalom ;  then  he  described 
furious  arpeggios,  punctuated  with  a  shrill 
tattoo.  And  the  crazy  music  defiled  by  in  a 
struggling  squad  of  chords ;  but  Afpad  Vihary 
never  lifted  his  eyes  from  Lora  Crowne.  .  .  . 

The  vibration  ceased.  Its  withdrawal  left  the 
ear-drums  buzzing  with  a  minute,  painful  sensa- 
tion, like  that  of  moisture  rapidly  evaporating 
upon  the  naked  skin.  A  battalion  of  tongues 
began  to  chatter  as  the  red-faced  waiters  rushed 
between  the  tables,  taking  orders.  It  was  after 
eleven  o'clock,  and  through  the  swinging  doors 
passed  a  throng  of  motley  people,  fanning,  gos- 
siping, bickering  —  all  eager  and  thirsty.  Clar- 
ence Steyle  pointed  out  the  celebrities  with 
conscious  delight.  Over  yonder  —  that  man 
with  the  mixed  gray  hair  —  was  a  composer  who 
came  every  night  for  inspiration,  —  musical  and 
otherwise,  Clarence  added,  with  a  laugh.  And 
there  was  the  young  and  well-known  decadent 
playwright  who  wore  strangling  high  collars  and 
transposed  all  his  plays  from  French  sources; 
he  lisped  and  was  proud  of  his  ability  to  drama- 
tize the  latest  mental  disease.  And  a  burglar 
who  had  written  a  famous  book  on  the  manage- 
ment of  children  during  hot  weather  sat  meekly 
resting  before  a  solitary  table. 

The  leader  of  the  Hungarian  band  was  a 
gypsy  who  called  himself  Alfassy  Janos,  though 
333 


VISIONARIES 

he  lived  on  First  Avenue,  in  a  flat  the  door  of 
which  bore  this  legend:  Jacob  Aron.  The  rest 
of  the  band  seemed  gypsy.  Who  is  the  cymbalom 
player?  That  is  not  difficult  to  answer;  the 
programme  gives  it. 

"  There  you  are,  Miss  Lora." 

She  looked.  "Oh,  what  a  romantic  name! 
He  must  be  a  count  at  least." 

"  Lora,  dear,  gypsies  never  bear  titles,"  re- 
marked Aunt  Lucas,  patronizingly. 

"  How  about  the  Abbe"  Liszt  ? "  triumphantly 
asked  her  charge. 

Aunt  Lucas  laughed  coldly.  "  Liszt  was 
Hungarian,  not  Romany.  But  your  artist  with 
the  drumsticks  certainly  is  distinguished-looking. 
If  he  only  would  not  wear  that  odious  scarlet 
uniform.  I  wonder  why  he  does  not  sit  down, 
like  the  rest  of  his  colleagues." 

Afpad  Vihary  leaned  against  the  panelled 
wall,  his  brow  puckered  in  boredom,  his  long 
black  mustaches  drooping  from  sheer  discour- 
agement. His  was  a  figure  for  sculpture  —  a 
frame  powerfully  modelled,  a  bisque  complex- 
ion. Thin  as  a  cedar  sapling,  he  preserved 
such  an  immovable  attitude  that  in  the  haze 
of  the  creamy  atmosphere  he  seemed  a  carved, 
marmoreal  image  rather  than  a  young  man  with 
devouring  eyes. 

The  three  visitors  ate  sandwiches  and  pre- 
tended to  relish  Munich  beer  served  in  tall 
stone  mugs.  Aunt  Lucas,  who  was  shaped  like 
a  'cello,  made  more  than  a  pretence  of  sipping ; 
334 


PAN 

she  drank  one  entirely,  regretting  the  exigencies 
of  chaperonage:  to  ask  for  more  might  shock 
the  proper  young  man. 

"  It's  horrid  here,  after  all,"  she  remarked  dis- 
contentedly. "  So  many  people  —  such  people  — 
and  very  few  nice  ones.  The  Batsons  are  over 
there,  Lora ;  but  then  you  don't  care  for  them. 
O  dear,  I  wish  the  band  would  strike  up  again." 

It  did.  A  vicious  swirl  of  colour  and  dizzy,  dis- 
located rhythms  prefaced  the  incantations  of  the 
Czardas.  Instantly  the  eating,  gabbling  crowd 
became  silent.  Alfassy  Janos  magnetized  his 
hearers  with  cradling,  caressing  movements  of 
his  fiddle.  He  waved  like  tall  grass  in  the 
wind ;  he  twisted  snakewise  his  lithe  body  as 
he  lashed  his  bow  upon  the  screaming  strings ; 
the  resilient  tones  darted  f  ulgurantly  from  instru- 
ment to  instrument.  After  chasing  in  circles  of 
quicksilver,  they  all  met  with  a  crash ;  and  the 
whole  tonal  battery,  reenforced  by  the  throbbing 
of  Afpad  Vihary's  dulcimer,  swept  through  the 
suite  of  rooms  from  ceiling  to  sanded  floor.  It 
was  no  longer  enchanting  music,  but  sheer  mad- 
ness of  the  blood  ;  sensual  and  warlike,  it  gripped 
the  imagination  as  these  tunes  of  old  Egypt,  fil- 
tered through  savage  centuries,  reached  the  ears. 
Lora  trembled  in  the  gale  that  blew  across  the 
Puzta.  She  imagined  a  determined  Hungarian 
prairie,  over  which  dashed  disordered  centaurs 
brandishing  clubs,  driving  before  them  a  band 
of  satyrs  and  leaping  fauns.  The  hoofed  men 
struggled.  At  their  front  was  a  monster  with 
335 


VISIONARIES 

a  black  goat-face  and  huge  horns;  he  fought 
fiercely  the  half-human  horses.  The  sun,  a 
thin  scarf  of  light,  was  eclipsed  by  earnest 
clouds;  the  curving  thunder  closed  over  the 
battle;  the  air  was  flame-sprinkled  and  enlaced 
by  music ;  and  most  melancholy  were  fhe  eyes 
of  the  defeated  Pan  —  the  melancholy  eyes  of 
Afpad  Vihary.  .  .  . 

Aunt  Lucas  was  scandalized.  "Do  you 
know,  Lora,  that  the  impudent  dulcimer  vir- 
tuoso"—  she  prided  herself  on  her  musical 
terms  —  "actually  stared  you  out  of  counte- 
nance during  the  entire  Czardas?"  And  she 
could  have  added  that  her  niece  had  returned 
the  glance  unflinchingly. 

Mr.  Steyle  noticed  Lora's  vacant  regard  when 

he  addressed  her  and  insisted  on  getting  her  away 

from  the  dangerous  undertow   of  this   "  table 

•  d'hdte  music,"  as  he  contemptuously  called  it. 

He  summoned  the  waiter. 

Lora  shed  her  disappointment.  "  Oh,  let's 
wait  for  the  cymbalom  solo,"  she  frankly  begged. 

Her  aunt  was  unmoved.  "  Yes,  Mr.  Steyle, 
we  had  better  go ;  the  air  is  positively  depress- 
ing. These  slumming  parties  are  delightful  if 
you  don't  overdo  them  —  but  the  people ! " 
Up  went  her  lorgnon. 

They  soon  departed.  Lora  did  not  dare  to 
look  back  until  she  reached  the  door  that  opened 
on  the  avenue ;  as  she  did  so  her  vibrant  gaze 
collided  with  the  Hungarian's.  She  determined 
to  see  him  again. 

336 


PAN 

II 

Nice  Brooklyn  girls  always  attend  church  and 
symphony  concerts.  This  dual  custom  is  con- 
sidered respectable  and  cultured.  Lora's  par- 
ents during  their  lifetime  never  missed  the 
Theodore  Thomas  concerts  and  the  sermons 
of  a  certain  famous  local  preacher;  but  there 
were  times  when  the  young  woman  longed 
for  Carmen  and  the  delights  of  fashionable 
Bohemia.  Carefully  reared  by  her  Aunt  Lucas, 
she  had  nevertheless  a  taste  for  gypsy  bands  and 
"  Gyp's  "  novels.  She  read  the  latter  translated, 
much  to  the  disedification  of  her  guardian,  who 
was  a  linguist  and  a  patron  of  the  fine  arts.  This 
latter  clause  included  subscriptions  to  the  Insti- 
tute Course  and  several  scientific  journals.  If 
Lora  were  less  romantic,  all  would  be  well. 
Once  the  careful  chaperon  had  feared  music 
and  its  disturbing  influences ;  but  after  she 
had  read  an  article  about  its  healing  effect 
upon  the  insane  she  felt  that  it  could  work  no 
evil  in  Lora;  indeed,  it  was  an  elevating  art. 
She  was  fond  of  music  herself,  and,  as  danc- 
ing was  strictly  tabooed,  there  seemed  little 
likelihood  of  the  noble  art  of  "sweet  concord- 
ance"—  Aunt  Lucas  had  picked  this  quota- 
tion up  somewhere  —  doing  mischief  to  her 
impressionable  niece. 

Nearly  all  dwelling-houses  look  alike  in 
Brooklyn,  even  at  midday.  The  street  in  which 
the  Crownes  lived  was  composed  of  conven- 

337 


VISIONARIES 

tional  brown-stone  buildings  and  English  base- 
ments. Nielje,  the  Dutch  maid,  stood  at  the 
half-opened  door,  regarding  with  suspicion  the 
big,  dark  man  who  had  pulled  the  bell  so  vio- 
lently. Aunt  Lucas  was  in  New  York  at  the 
meeting  of  a  society  devoted  to  Ethical  Enjoy- 
ment. Though  Nielje  had  been  warned  secretly 
of  an  expected  visitor,  this  wild-looking  young 
man  with  long  black  hair,  wearing  a  flaring  coat 
of  many  colours  and  baggy  Turkish  trousers, 
gave  her  a  shock.  Why  did  he  come  to  the 
basement  as  if  he  were  one  of  the  cook's  callers  ? 
She  paused.  Then  the  door  was  shoved  in  by  a 
muscular  arm,  and  she  was  pushed  against  the 
wall. 

"  Don't  try  that  again,  man,"  she  protested. 

He  answered  her  in  gibberish.  "  Mees,  Mees 
Lor  a,"  he  repeated. 

"  Ach  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

Afpad  Vihary  gloomily  followed  her  into  the 
dining-room,  where  Lora  stood  trembling.  This 
was  the  third  time  she  had  met  the  Hungarian, 
and  fearing  Prospect  Park,  —  after  two  timid 
walks  there,  under  the  fiery-fingered  leaves  of 
early  autumn,  —  she  had  been  prevailed  upon 
to  invite  Afpad  to  her  home.  She  regretted  her 
imprudence  the  moment  he  entered.  All  his 
footlight  picturesqueness  vanished  in  the  cold, 
hard  light  of  an  unromantic  Brooklyn  breakfast- 
room.  He  seemed  like  a  clumsy  circus  hero  as 
he  scraped  his  feet  over  the  parquetry  and 
attempted  to  kiss  her  hand.  She  drew  away 

338 


PAN 

instantly  and  pointed  to  a  chair.  He  refused 
to  sit  down ;  his  pride  seemed  hurt. 

Then  he  gave  the  girl  an  intense  look,  and 
she  drew  nearer. 

"  Oh,  Afpad  Vihary,"  she  began. 

He  interrupted.  "  You  do  not  love  me  now. 
Why  ?  You  told  me  you  loved  me,  in  the  park, 
yesterday.  I  am  a  poor  artist,  that  is  the 
reason." 

This  speech  he  uttered  glibly,  and,  despite 
the  extraordinary  pronunciation,  she  understood 
it.  She  took  his  long  hand,  the  fingers  amazed 
her.  He  bent  them  back  until  they  touched  his 
wrist,  and  was  proud  of  their  flexibility.  He 
walked  to  the  dining-table  and  tossed  its  cover- 
cloth  on  a  chair.  Upon  his  two  thumbs  he  went 
around  it  like  an  acrobat.  "  Shall  I  hold  you 
out  with  one  arm  ?  "  he  softly  asked.  Lora  was 
vastly  amused ;  this  was  indeed  a  courtship  out 
of  the  ordinary  —  it  pleased  her  exotic  taste. 

"  Hungarian  gypsies  are  very  strong,  are  they 
not  ? "  she  innocently  asked. 

"  I  am  not  gypsy  nor  am  I  Hungarian ;  I  am 
an  East  Indian.  My  family  is  royal.  We  are 
of  the  Rajpoot  tribes  called  Ranas.  My  father 
once  ruled  Roorbunder." 

Lora  was  amazed.  A  king's  son,  a  Rana  of 
Roorbunder!  She  became  very  sympathetic. 
Again  she  urged  him  to  sit  down. 

"  My  nation  never  sits  before  a  woman,"  he 
proudly  answered. 

"  But  I  will  sit  beside  you,"  she  coaxed,  push- 

339 


VISIONARIES 

ing  him  to  a  corner.  He  resisted  her  and  went 
to  the  window.  Lora  again  joined  him.  The 
man  piqued  her.  He  was  mysterious  and  very 
unlike  Mr.  Steyle  —  poor,  sentimental  Clarence, 
who  melted  with  sighs  if  she  but  glanced  at 
him  ;  and  then,  Clarence  was  too  stout.  She 
adored  slender  men,  believing  that  when  fat 
came  in  at  the  door  love  fled  out  of  the  window. 

"  They  put  me  in  a  circus  at  Buda-Pesth,"  re- 
marked Afpad  Vihary,  as  if  he  were  making  a 
commonplace  statement  about  the  weather. 

She  gave  a  little  scream ;  he  regarded  her 
with  Oriental  composure.  "  In  a  circus !  You ! 
Did  you  ride  ? " 

"  I  cannot  ride/'  he  said.  "  I  played  in  a 
cage  all  day." 

"  Because  you  were  wild  ? "  She  then  went 
into  a  fit  of  laughter.  He  was  such  a  funny 
fellow,  though  his  ardent  gaze  made  her  blush. 
So  blond  and  pink  was  Lora  that  her  friends 
called  her  Strawberry  —  a  delicate  compliment 
in  which  she  delighted.  It  was  this  golden  head 
and  radiant  face,  with  implacably  blue  eyes, 
that  set  the  blood  pumping  into  Afpad's  brain. 
When  he  looked  at  her,  he  saw  sunlight. 

"  Do  you  know,  you  absurd  prince,  that  when 
you  played  the  Czardas  the  other  night  I  seemed 
to  see  a  vision  of  a  Hungarian  prairie,  covered 
with  fighting  centaurs  and  satyrs  !  I  longed  to 
be  a  vivanditre  among  all  those  fauns.  You 
were  there  —  in  the  music,  I  mean  —  and  you 
were  big  Pan  —  oh,  so  ugly  and  terrible !  " 
340 


PAN 

"  Pan !  That  is  a  Polish  title,"  he  answered 
quite  simply. 

"  Stupid  !  The  great  god  Pan  —  don't  you 
know  your  mythology  ?  Haven't  you  read  Mrs. 
Browning  ?  He  was  the  god  of  nature,  of  the 
woods.  Even  now,  I  believe  you  have  ears 
with  furry  tips  and  hoofs  like  a  faun." 

He  turned  a  sickly  yellow. 

"  Anyhow,  why  did  they  put  you  in  a  cage  ? 
Were  you  a  wild  boy  ? " 

"They  thought  so  in  Hungary." 

"But  why?" 

He  stared  at  her  sorrowfully,  and  was  about 
to  empty  his  soul ;  but  she  turned  away  with  a 
shudder. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  she  whispered;  "your 
hands — they  are  like  the  hands  of  —  " 

Afpad  threw  out  his  chest,  and  Lora  heard 
with  a  curiosity  that  became  nervous  a  rhythmic 
wagging  sound,  like  velvet  bruised  by  some  dull 
implement.  It  frightened  her. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid  of  me,"  he  begged.  "  You 
cannot  say  anything  I  do  not  know  already." 
He  walked  to  the  door,  and  the  girl  followed  him. 

"  Don't  go,  Afpad,"  she  said  with  pretty  re- 
morse. 

The  fire  blazed  in  his  eyes  and  with  a  single 
swift  grasp  he  seized  her,  holding  her  aloft  like 
a  torch.  Lora  almost  lost  consciousness.  She 
had  not  counted  upon  such  barbarous  wooing, 
and.  frightened,  cried  out,  "  Nielje,  Nielje ! " 

Nielje  burst  into  the  room  as  if  she  had  been 


VISIONARIES 

very  near  the  keyhole.     She  was  a  powerful 
woman  from  Holland,  who  did  not  fear  an  army. 

"  Put  her  down !  "  she  insisted,  in  her  deepest 
gutturals.  "  Put  her  down,  you  brute,  or  I'll 
hurt  you." 

Lor  a  jumped  to  the  floor  as  Nielje  struck  with 
her  broomstick  at  Afpad's  retreating  back.  To 
the  surprise  of  the  women  he  gave  a  shriek  of 
agony  and  ran  to  the  door,  Nielje  following  close 
behind.  Lora,  her  eyes  strained  with  excite- 
ment, did  not  stir ;  she  heard  a  struggle  in  the 
little  hall  as  the  man  fumbled  at  the  basement 
entrance.  Again  he  yelled,  and  then  Lora 
rushed  to  the  window.  Nielje,  on  her  knees, 
was  being  dragged  across  the  grassy  space  in 
front  of  the  house.  She  held  on,  seemingly,  to 
the  coat-tail  of  the  frantic  musician ;  only  by  a 
vigorous  shove  did  he  evade  her  persistent  grasp 
and  disappear. 

A  policeman  with  official  aptness  went  leis- 
urely by.  Nielje  flew  into  the  house,  locking 
and  bolting  the  door.  Her  face  was  red  as  she 
rolled  on  the  floor,  her  hands  at  her  sides.  Lora, 
alarmed,  thought  she  was  seriously  hurt  or  hys- 
terical from  fright;  but  the  laughter  was  too 
hearty  and  appealing. 

"  Oh,  Meeslora !  Oh,  Meeslora !  "  she  gasped. 
"He  must  be  monkey-man  —  he  has  monkey 
tail ! " 

Lora  could  have  fainted  from  chagrin  and 
horror. 

Had  the  great  god  Pan  passed  her  way  ? 
342 


BOOKS    BY    JAMES    HUNEKER 


What  some  distinguished  writers  have  said  of 
them  : 

Maurice  Maeterlinck  wrote,  May  15,  1905:  "Do 
you  know  that  'Iconoclasts'  is  the  only  book  of  high 
and  universal  critical  worth  that  we  have  had  for 
years — to  be  precise,  since  Georg  Brandes.  It  is  at 
once  strong  and  fine,  supple  and  firm,  indulgent  and 
sure." 

And  of  "Ivory  Apes  and  Peacocks"  he  said,  among 
other  things:  "I  have  marvelled  at  the  vigilance  and 
clarity  with  which  you  follow  and  judge  the  new  liter- 
ary and  artistic  movements  in  all  countries.  L  do  not 
know  of  criticism  more  pure  and  sure  than  yours." 
(October,  1915.) 

"The  Mercure  de  France  translated  the  other  day 
from  Scribner's  one  of  the  best  studies  which  have  been 
written  on  Stendhal  for  a  long  time,  in  which  there  was 
no  evasion  of  the  question  of  Stendhal's  immorality. 
The  author  of  that  article,  James  Huneker,  is,  among 
foreign  critics,  the  one  best  acquainted  with  French 
literature  and  the  one  who  judges  us  with  the  greatest 
sympathy  and  with  the  most  freedom.  He  has  pro- 
tested with  force  in  numerous  American  journals 
against  the  campaign  of  defamation  against  France  and 
he  has  easily  proved  that  those  who  participate  in  it 
are  ignorant  and  fanatical." — "Promenades  Litleraires" 
(Troisieme  Serie),  Remy  de  Gourmont.  (Translated  by 
Burton  Rascoe  for  the  Chicago  Tribune.) 


Paul  Bourget  wrote,  Lundi  de  Paques,  1909,  of 
"Egoists":  "I  have  browsed  through  the  pages  of 
your  book  and  found  that  you  touch  in  a  sympathetic 
style  on  diverse  problems,  artistic  and  literary.  In  the 
case  of  Stendhal  your  catholicity  of  treatment  is  ex- 
tremely rare  and  courageous." 


Dr.  Georg  Brandes,  the  versatile  and  profound 
Danish  critic,  wrote:  "I  find  your  breadth  of  view 
and  its  expression  more  European  than  American;  but 
the  essential  thing  is  that  you  are  an  artist  to  your  very 
marrow." 


BOOKS    BY    JAMES    HUNEKER 


IVORY  APES  AND  PEACOCKS 

"Out  of  the  depressing  welter  of  our  American  writing  upon 
aesthetics,  with  its  incredible  thinness  and  triteness  and  paltriness, 
its  intellectual  sterility,  its  miraculous  dulness,  its  limitless  and 
appalling  vapidity,  Mr.  James  Huneker,  and  the  small  and  honor- 
able minority  of  his  peers,  emerge  with  a  conspicuousness  that  is 
both  comforting  and  disgraceful.  .  .  .  Susceptibility,  clairvoyance, 
immediacy  of  response,  are  his;  he  is  the  friend  of  any  talent  that  is 
fine  and  strange  and  frank  enough  to  incur  the  dislike  of  the  mighty 
army  of  Bourbons,  Puritans,  and  Boeotians.  He  is  innocent  of 
prepossessions.  He  is  infinitely  flexible  and  generous.  Yet  if,  in 
the  twenty  years  that  we  have  been  reading  him,  he  has  ever  praised 
a  commonplace  talent,  we  have  no  recollection  of  it.  His  critical 
tact  is  well-nigh  infallible.  ...  His  position  among  writers  on 
aesthetics  is  anomalous  and  incredible:  no  merchant  traffics  in  his 
heart,  yet  he  commands  a  large,  an  eager,  an  affectionate  public. 
Is  it  because  he  is  both  vivid  and  acute,  robust  yet  fine-fingered, 
tolerant  yet  unyielding,  astringent  yet  tender— a  mellow  pessimist, 
a  kindly  cynic?  Or  is  it  rather  because  he  is,  primarily,  a  tem- 
perament— dynamic,  contagious,  lovable,  inveterately  alive — ex- 
pressing itself  through  the  most  transparent  of  the  arts?" 
— LAWRENCE  OILMAN,  in  North  American  Review  (October,  1915). 


NEW  COSMOPOLIS 

"Mr.  James  Huneker,  critic  of  music  in  the  first  place,  is  a  crafts- 
man of  diverse  accomplishment  who  occupies  a  distinctive  and 
distinguished  place  among  present-day  American  essayists.  He  is 
intensely  'modern,'  well  read  in  recent  European  writers,  and  not 
lacking  sympathy  with  the  more  rebellious  spirits.  Ancient  seren- 
ity has  laid  no  chastening  hand  on  his  thought  and  style,  but  he  has 
achieved  at  times  a  fineness  of  expression  that  lifts  his  work  above 
that  of  the  many  eager  and  artistic  souls  who  strive  to  be  the  thinkers 
of  New  England  to-day.  He  flings  off  his  impressions  at  fervent 
heat;  he  is  not  ashamed  to  be  enthusiastic;  and  he  cannot  escape 
that  large  sentimentality  which,  to  less  disciplined  transatlantic 
writers,  is  known  nakedly  as  'heart  interest.'  Out  of  his  chaos 
of  reading  and  observation  he  has,  however,  evolved  a  criticism  of 
life  that  makes  for  intellectual  cultivation,  although  it  is  of  a  Bo- 
hemian rather  than  an  academic  kind.  Given  a  different  environ- 
ment, another  training,  Mr.  Huneker  might  have  emerged  as  an 
American  Walter  Pater." — London  Athenaum  (November  6,  1015). 


BOOKS    BY    JAMES    HUNEKER 


UNICORNS 

"The  essays  are  short,  full  of  a  satisfying — and  fascinating — 
crispness,  both  memorable  and  delightful.  And  they  are  full  of 
fancy,  too,  of  the  gayest  humor,  the  quickest  appreciation,  the 
gentlest  sympathy,  sometimes  of  an  enchanting  extravagance." 

—New  York  Times. 


MELOMANIACS 

"It  would  be  difficult  to  sum  up  'Melomaniacs'  in  a  phrase. 
Never  did  a  book,  in  my  opinion  at  any  rate,  exhibit  greater  con- 
trast*, not,  perhaps,  of  strength  and  weakness,  but  of  clearness  and 
obscurity." 
— HAROLD  E.  GORST,  in  London  Saturday  Review  (Dec.  8, 1906). 


VISIONARIES 

"In  "The  Spiral  Road'  and  in  some  of  the  other  stories  both  fan- 
tasy and  narrative  may  be  compared  with  Hawthorne  in  his  most 
unearthly  moods.  The  younger  man  has  read  his  Nie'zsche  and  has 
cast  off  his  heritage  of  simple  morals.  Hawthorne's  Puritanism  findi 
no  echo  in  these  modem  souls,  all  sceptical,  wavering,  and  unblessed. 
But  Hawthorne's  splendor  of  vision  and  his  power  of  sympathy  with 
s  tormented  mind  do  live  again  in  the  best  of  Mr.  Huneker's  stories." 
—London  Academy  (Feb.  3, 1906). 


ICONOCLASTS: 

A  Book  of  Dramatists 

"  His  style  is  a  little  jerky,  but  it  is  one  of  those  rare  styles  in  which 
we  are  led  to  expect  some  significance,  if  not  wit,  in  every  sentence." 
— G.  K.  CHESTERTON,  in  London  Daily  News. 


MEZZOTINTS  IN  MODERN 
MUSIC 

"Mr.  Huneker  is,  in  the  best  sense,  a  critic;  he  listens  to  the 
music  and  gives  you  his  impressions  as  rapidly  and  in  as  few  words 
as  possible;  or  he  sketches  the  composers  in  fine,  broad,  sweeping 
strokes  with  a  magnificent  disregard  for  unimportant  details.  And 
as  Mr.  Huneker  is,  as  I  have  said,  a  powerful  personality,  a  man  of 
quick  brain  and  an  energetic  imagination,  a  man  of  moods  and  tem- 
perament—a string  that  vibrates  and  sings  in  response  to  music — 
we  get  in  these  essays  of  his  a  distinctly  original  and  very  valuable 
contribution  to  the  world's  tiny  musical  literature." 

— J.  F.  RUNCIMAN,  in  London  Saturday  Revtcw. 


OOKS    BY    JAMES    HUNEKER 

FRANZ  LISZT     - 

WITH  NUMEROUS  ILLUSTRATIONS 


CHOPIN:     The  Man  and  His  Music 


OVERTONES: 

A  Book  of  Temperaments 

WITH  FRONTISPIECE  PORTRAIT  OP  RICHARD  STRAUSS 

"In  some  respects  Mr.  Huneker  must  be  reckoned  the  most 
brilliant  of  all  living  writers  on  matters  musical." 

— Academy,  London. 


THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

A  Book  of  a  Thousand  and  One  Moments 

"He  talks  about  Bergson  as  well  as  Matisse;  he  never  can  keep 
still  about  Wagner;  he  hauls  over  his  French  library  of  modern 
immortals,  and  he  gives  a  touch  to  George  Moore,  to  Arthur  Davies, 
and  to  many  another  valiant  worker  in  paint,  music,  and  letters. 
The  book  is  stimulating;  brilliant  even  with  an  unexpected  bril- 
liancy."— Chicago  Tribune. 


PROMENADES  OF  AN 
IMPRESSIONIST 

"We  like  best  such  sober  essays  as  those  which  analyze  for  us  the 
technical  contributions  of  C6zanne  and  Rodin.  Here  Mr.  Huneker 
is  a  real  interpreter,  and  here  his  long  experience  of  men  and  ways 
in  art  counts  for  much.  Charming,  in  the  slighter  vein,  are  such 
appreciations  as  the  Monticelli  and  Chardin." — FRANK  JEWETT 
MATHER,  JR.,  in  New  York  Nation  and  Evening  Post. 


EGOISTS 

WITH  PORTRAIT  AND  FACSIMILE  REPRODUCTIONS 

"Gosely  and  yet  lightly  written,  full  of  facts,  yet  as  amusing  ac 
a  bit  of  discursive  talk,  penetrating,  candid,  and  very  shrewd.' 
— ROYAL  CORTISSOZ,  in  the  New  York  Tribune. 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS,   NEW   YORK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 


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